


Recall

by doctorate_in_realology



Series: Recall [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8276728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorate_in_realology/pseuds/doctorate_in_realology
Summary: This story depicts the series of events that take place after Winston initiates the Recall Protocol.After years of inactivity, Winston will watch the world burn no longer; Overwatch has to act.





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my shit. Hope you guys enjoy! Throw some feedback my way if you'd like, it'd be much appreciated.
> 
> EDIT 2/9/2017: LISTEN I STARTED THINKING ABOUT IT AND I WENT BACK TO READ SOME SHIT AND TURNS OUT I GOOFED THE TIMELINE REALLY HARD WHEN I WROTE THIS SO I MEAN FUCK ME RIGHT? LIKE IT IS MAD FUCKIN' GOOFY SO JUST LIKE, Y'KNOW, IGNORE THAT, OR JUST SEND ME DEATH THREATS TELLING ME HOW STUPID I AM WHATEVER TICKLES YOUR FANCY
> 
> UPDATE 2/18/2017: This fic is completed. For whatever bullshit reason it never saves when I edit it to read 14/14 chapters. It has been finished for a while but I figured I should throw this on here.

“You know that if the UN catches wind of this we’ll be some of the most wanted criminals in the world, yeah?”

Winston let out an irritated sigh. He glanced about the room, feeling himself in a limbo of certainty and uncertainty. Perhaps he'd been too hasty. A decision of this gravity was not a binary one; there were consequences, variables, things that needed ample consideration. Perhaps it would be wise to—

No. Now was not the time for doubts. It had to be done.

"Winston?"

“Right, sorry," he said, snapping out of his indecision. "I know that Lena, but what else would you have me do? I’m not going to sit idly by anymore, huddled away in my lab while the world descends into chaos.”

“Neither am I. I’m more than willing to do this, I just hope you know what the consequences are.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Well then quit your fussing and hop to it! I’ll get packing.”

“You don’t have to go far,” Winston added quickly, knowing that if he hadn’t she would have bounded off before he had the chance to. “Gibraltar is compromised; Talon knows the base’s location. We’ve a bunker underneath London. We kept it a secret—even from the United Nations—as a sort of contingency in case of… well, situations like this, I suppose. Everyone is to meet up there instead. I’ll send you the location.”

“Oh. Well, that’s pretty handy, innit? Hey, one more thing… Winston?”

“Yes?”

She paused before she spoke, and he could practically hear the smile grow on her face.

“We’re back.”

The audio call window displaying the name “Lena ‘Tracer’ Oxton” closed, and the large monitor went black. The disembodied, melodious voice of Athena echoed throughout the laboratory.

“I’ll run diagnostics on the satellite and prepare the launch sequence.”

“Good. Afterwards, back yourself into the Pantheon cloud. Anything that isn’t absolutely vital, wipe from the system. We’ll take only what we need with us. Oh, and Athena?”

“Yes, Winston?”

“Do you mind?”

She sighed, loudly enough to make abundantly clear what her thoughts were on his stubbornness.

"'Take only what we need with us’, hm? Yes, I’ll have your peanut butter sent to London.”

Winston cracked an appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

He sat back down at his desk, calmly exhaling. His address to the agents of Overwatch needed to move them, it needed to spur them to action.

He hurriedly scrawled the message on a sheet of paper and muttered it back to himself. He took a deep breath, and began the recording.

“Is this on? I built a chronal accelerator, I’m sure I can do this.”

 

*******

 

Tracer boarded the massive cargo lift in the derelict subway station beneath King’s Row. The elevator reached its bottom floor—basement level two—yet its descent continued. She began wondering how far down the lift went, and how it continued to function at all after so many years of disuse. She guessed that the Overwatch bunker’s auxiliary power was likely the only thing that kept it running.

The elevator doors parted, and a spacious passageway lay beyond. She entered through the red blast doors situated at the end of the corridor that contrasted against the grey-white reinforced concrete walls

At the back of the large atrium she found herself in sat two tables, and a bench with orange leather seating. A small suite that overlooked the room hung above the door. A thick layer of dust blanketed every surface. She took to familiarizing herself with the base.

A door to the right of the atrium led to a hallway lined with rooms. One read “Physician’s Office”; another read “Communications”; a third read “War Room”. At the end of the corridor was a T-junction, the right side leading to the mess hall, the left side leading to the living quarters. She turned left.

The door slid open and revealed a flight of stairs. Tracer ascended them and found herself in another corridor with numerous rooms along the left-hand side, enough to accommodate a great many people. At Watchpoint: Gibraltar, everybody simply slept in the barracks; she relished the thought of a room to herself.

She chose the first room, and dropped her things on the bed at the far right corner. The space was larger than she would have thought, yet still modest, and somewhat boring to look at. She would have to make it much livelier—throw some posters on the walls, maybe. She laughed, entertaining the thought of how absolutely ridiculous it would look trying to haul a couch into an abandoned metro station.

She heard a dull thud in the direction from which she came—someone else had arrived! She nearly flew back to the atrium to meet them.

The door slid open to reveal a broad-shouldered, towering man. Blown-back white hair and a beard, as well as a scar over a blinded left eye, adorned his head and face. Two large duffel bags sat at his sides, obviously far too heavy for anyone but him to carry. He looked at Tracer, and an ear-to-ear grin parted his face.

“Reinhardt!”

Reinhardt Wilhelm belted out his signature contagious guffaw, and his booming voice nearly shook the dust from the walls.

“Lena, my friend! How long it has been since I last saw that lovely face!”

She ran to greet him, and he lifted her from her feet without effort in a bear-like embrace.

“It’s so good to see you!” she awed.

“And equally as marvelous to see you!” His voice from so close a distance bordered on deafening, but she was so pleased to have reunited with him that all care had dissipated.

The two talked about their escapades at length while exploring the underground complex. She led him to the living quarters, where he laid his things. He made a point of scouring the mess hall freezer for any preserved food, of which there was plenty, to his delight. They explored further, finding an armory, a lounge, a gym, a laboratory and a medical bay beyond the door to the left of the atrium.

They gave their friends the warmest of welcomes as they arrived at the bunker one-by-one in the following days.

There were notable absentees, though; Zarya unfortunately being one among them. A second Omnic Crisis had broken out in Russia. It was likely she stayed there to help the Russian forces repel the robotic threat. Tracer didn’t hold her at fault for not showing; her people’s lives were at risk. She could do more good there than here.

The group finally sat down together in the lounge, once everyone had shown. They caught up with one another, sharing stories and exchanging laughs. The atmosphere was something indescribable—"magical" seemed a bit too dramatic, but it was as close as one could get.

McCree hopped onto the bar counter, a drink in his hand and an unfaltering smile on his face as he addressed Reinhardt, Pharah and Mercy with a tale.

“So,” he began, “‘Bout seven months ago now, I’m in Paducah, Kentucky, right? I’ve just, uh, _procured_ myself a bottle of 1792 Ridgemont Reserve from a hotel bar—seein’ as it was a mite understaffed that night and the damn thing was just sittin’ there—and I'm enjoyin' a leisurely nighttime excursion. Suddenly, I realize that, one: there’s a fella in a gas station ‘cross the street holding up the cashier at gunpoint, and two: the bottle’s got less than an inch left already. I’m tellin’ you, soon as I noticed that, it hit me like a brick wall; to me, it starts lookin’ like the thief in the gas station’s got two identical—albeit rather hazy—compadres with him.”

Reinhardt slammed his hand on the table, clenched into a fist in laughter. Pharah and Mercy were laughing less at McCree’s story and more at Reinhardt’s uproarious howling.

Somewhere, Tracer heard Winston’s low laughter, accompanied by Torbjörn’s. The stoic Genji, spurred on by Lúcio and a fair deal of peer pressure, danced alongside him, the soundtrack being Mei and D.Va’s whooping and cheering.

Overwatch was back. Their family was reunited. The happiness, the companionship—there was nothing like it in the world.

McCree abruptly cut off right before the punchline of his story in what Tracer originally thought to be an effort to build suspense, and the shouting and hollering halted mid-air. Tracer turned to find that a man, white of hair and grim of visage, was the source of the sudden onset of silence. No-one had seen him enter. They all just stared.

He wore a carbon fibre faceplate, his gaze hidden behind a piercing red visor—an ominous and suiting accompaniment to the air of unease that followed him. He had on a tri-coloured leather jacket, with a large “76” stitched on its back.

Tracer decided to break the silence before it became any more uncomfortable, damned if she was going to let anything come anywhere close to trampling the mood.

“Hiya! Terribly sorry, mate, but I don’t recognize you.” She extended a hand for the stranger to shake. “Name’s Lena, but most of the time my friends call me Tracer.”

Instead of shaking her hand, he sighed, and his shoulders drooped. Caught off-guard, Tracer looked around at her friends, not taking her gaze entirely off of him.

The stranger looked to Winston, then Mercy. They nodded silently. His gaze fell back to the young, cheerful girl before him.

“I know who you are, Tracer.”

Her hand slowly fell to her side, and her eyes widened. She recognized his voice… No, it couldn’t have been. That would be ridiculous. But… it was unmistakable.

The man scanned the room. He removed his mask as if with reluctance, revealing a pallid, scarred, and battle-worn face.

Tracer’s mind reeled. “...Commander?”

“Hey, kiddo,” Jack said, ignoring the compulsion to wince at being called ‘Commander’ again. The corner of his mouth turned upward in a rare smile. “It’s good to see you. All of you. It’s… been a long time.”

The room was in utter shock. It was silent for what felt like a dramatically long time; a ghost may as well have been standing before them. A ghost _was_ standing before them.

It wasn’t until Tracer abruptly threw her arms around him that he was swarmed by the entire room and overwhelmed with greetings.

They bombarded him with questions amidst the crowd. “What about Switzerland? What happened? The explosion at the headquarters—we thought you were dead?”

He gestured his head towards Mercy. “Thank our talented Dr. Ziegler for that. Only reason I’m standing here.”

Heads turned to her in unison. She offered a dignified bow with a graceful smile.

The welcomes and expressions of love waned after some time, and the agents turned.

Reinhardt hadn’t moved. Hadn’t made a sound.

Everyone cleared a path between the two men. Jack walked silently toward him. He could only hope that Reinhardt wasn't furious.

They locked eyes in an uncomfortable silence, neither of them fully knowing what to say. Jack finally decided on something he hoped was appropriate.

“I’m sorry, Reinhardt.”

Tears welled in the lofty man’s eyes. Jack was genuinely shocked to find that his old friend, instead of being justifiably livid, had grasped him in an embrace long overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you got a kick out of chapter 1! This is a work in progress, so I'll be updating it pretty steadily. Next chapter isn't far off, and there should be another right on its heels.
> 
> EDIT: Okay so this story is done now. The fourteen chapters that are out are the entire thing. For whatever reason, whenever I try to edit to work so that it says "14/14" instead of "14/?", it won't save. Iunno, dude, but oh well. There'll be a sequel, but THIS particular story will have no further updates.


	2. The Townsman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer, Mei and McCree head out for a drink and a bite to eat at one of the local pubs at Tracer's behest.
> 
> EDIT 2/9/2017: guess who didn't know that Museum took place after Recall and didn't find out until like two days ago it's fuckin' MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE SO SORRY, TRACER'S STORY MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE GREAT COOL REALLY GLAD THIS HAS BEEN OUT FOR LIKE FOUR MONTHS WITH A FLAGRANT TIMELINE CONTRADICTION IN IT WOOOOOOO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo. I'm excited to put this thing out so here's some more garbage for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

It didn't take long for the agents to make themselves at home; Mercy settled into the Physician’s Office and took inventory of the supplies on-hand; Jack, Reinhardt and Pharah took to the gym shortly after settling in; Torbjӧrn sat in the armory, taking note of what they had and what needed repairs or enhancements; McCree sat in the lounge with Mei and Lúcio, who found humour in his extreme displeasure with the selection of liquor.

Winston settled into the suite overlooking the atrium. His first order of business was transferring Athena onto the base’s servers and having her run analyses on the power and supplies; the systems had long been neglected but were easily repairable, and the base was stocked with enough food, drink, and activities for a large number of people to live quite comfortably. He was glad that its location had been kept such a well-guarded secret.

Tracer was sitting with her feet up on the corner of the white table in the centre of the room. “So what happened at Gibraltar, anyway? You said Talon knew where it was?”

“Yes,” Winston replied. “Reaper, along with some of his lackeys, ambushed me there. He tried to kill me and access the Overwatch database. Almost did, too—nearly had every agent’s location. I shudder to think what would have happened if that information got into Talon’s hands.”

Tracer’s gaze drifted. “They’ve really got it out for us,” she responded quietly.

“Yes, they do,” Winston began in a forethoughtful tone, “which is why caution is absolutely paramount. We have to operate in secret. We have to be constantly aware of who might be around us. Drawing undue attention to ourselves is the last thing we want or need.”

Tracer let out a laugh. “A little easier said than done with this bunch, don’tcha think?”

“Of course it is, which is why I’m saying it in the first place.”

“I know, love, I know. We’ll be careful.” She lifted her feet from the table and hopped out of her chair. “I’m off to see if anybody’ll join me for a pint or two. I take it you’ll just stay here?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, I’ll remain here, thank you. You remember what I told you?”

Tracer giggled and walked backwards towards the door. “‘Caution is absolutely paramount,’” she grumbled, doing a terrible job of imitating his voice, before turning to leave.

“I’m serious!” Winston shouted.

“I know you are, stop worrying!”

Tracer hopped back into the atrium and wandered over to the lounge. She could hear Reinhardt laughing, despite the three steel walls that stood between them.

The lounge’s walls did an excellent job of portraying an imitated holographic view of London high above street level—well enough that it was easy to forget they were deep underground. The quickly-fading dark pink glow of dusk lit the room pleasantly. Tracer briefly enjoyed the mirage.

She greeted McCree, Mei and Lúcio, who each greeted her back.

“Pub, anyone? I know a great one about a hop, skip and a jump from here.”

McCree grinned wildly. “Girl, you are a godsend, I tell you. Who in the hell’d they put in charge of stocking this place with some proper liquor, anyhow?”

Mei smiled. “He’s been nagging us for nearly twenty minutes about it.”

“Well pardon me, little lady, for bein’ a man of exquisite tastes,” McCree fired back, earning some placid laughter.

“That sounds nice, Tracer, I’d like that,” Mei responded with a smile.

Lúcio spoke up. “Can’t, I’m afraid. I promised our guy Winston I’d work with him on some hard-light manipulation project he’s got planned. I think he’s gonna try and implement it into that barrier projector he’s been working on. That, and D.Va and I got some ideas for a few jams to put on my next album. Thanks for the invite, though.”

“Sure thing. We’ll see you in a little while.”

 

  *******

 

The trio walked the streets of London, moonlight and the pale yellow glow of outdated streetlamps shining off the damp cobblestone. The agreeable scent of rain filled their lungs, and the night was pleasantly cool.

They rounded a corner and found themselves in front of a pub. The words “The Townsman” hung above the door, painted on an old wooden sign that depicted a caricature of a drunken, joyful man holding a glass of ale over his head. Tracer was quick to assure them that this was one of London’s oldest and finest pubs, holding the heavy oak door open for them to walk inside.

They were bombarded with smells typical of a rowdy pub as soon as they entered; cooked food, spilled beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat permeated the air. A bar dominated the far wall, manned by a mature human woman and her Omnic bartending assistant. The Omnic cleaned glasses, wiped down the counter, and begrudgingly suffered the solemn life stories of disenfranchised patrons.

The old woman noticed Tracer and greeted her fondly with a wave, and motioned for the three of them to take their seats at a vacant booth. A platter hovered towards their table not long after. They gave their order and it beeped in acknowledgement, sputtering back behind the bar.

Finally having acquired some proper alcohol, they began to swap old war stories; McCree relayed the harrowing tale of an eight-hour coast-to-coast trek aboard the roof of a hypertrain car that culminated in an air raid by Talon mercenaries, humourously recalling when he’d taken cover aside a strangely-calm elderly woman; Tracer told of her and Winston’s exploits in foiling a Talon plan to steal the Doomfist Gauntlet from the Overwatch Historical Exhibit—the last venture they had undertaken before going their separate ways. She made a point of commending the young boy who had personally helped them in their efforts.

Mei’s eyes widened in disbelief. “A young boy?”

“Unbelievable, right?” Tracer enthused. “Took the Gauntlet right out from under that Widowmaker girl’s nose and cracked her one with it. Sent her through some pretty expensive glass displays, too.”

“Brave kid,” McCree murmured with a hint of admiration.

The conversation was briefly interrupted by the bartender shouting, and they turned to see her yelling at one of the pub’s rowdier patrons. The threat she issued suggested castration and a liberal spilling of unpleasant bodily fluids should he not settle down. The men around him erupted into laughter, and he sat back down with a wily grin on his face.

Mei slowly stood from her seat, looking rather perturbed at the imagery that accompanied the biting commination. “I think I’d like some fresh air, now.”

McCree and Tracer looked at her with concern. She assured them she was fine, she simply wanted a quick walk; she wasn’t particularly fond of the scent of cigarette smoke and raucous noise. McCree offered to accompany her, but she politely refused and assuaged their disquiet once more before leaving the pub.

McCree turned back to his drink. He glanced at Tracer to find her smiling wryly at him.

“What?”

“You know bloody well what,” she started, almost shouting. “Are you barmy? Go walk with her!”

“She just said—”

“Of course she said no, ya prat!”

He said nothing, his face aghast.

Tracer huffed. “She left because she’s nervous around you, and she’s nervous around you because she doesn’t know how to talk to you. Don’t be coy, Jesse McCree, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He scoffed. “You’re outta your mind.”

She continued to eye him with the same unwavering look, determined to enlighten her friend on the nuances of romance that, to her surprise, he was appallingly unaware of.

McCree swirled his drink and met her eyes from just under the brim of his hat. “Fine. I concede that I’ve thought about it a couple times.”

“A couple, eh?”

“Alright, fine, more than a couple. Christ, you’re relentless,” he condemned from behind his glass. “But, c’mon, what would a girl like Mei want anything to do with an old goat like me?”

“Are you daft?” she said with a laugh, smiling with wild disbelief. “You mean to tell me you haven’t seen the way she _gawks_ at you, all wide-eyed and pouty-like?”

McCree chuckled. “I dunno, I guess I never really paid too much attention.”

“All that roguish charm of yours,” she mused, “and still you haven’t got the faintest idea of how to deal with a girl. Shame on you. Out ya go, cowboy. Go talk to her.”

McCree took another drink. “This is damn cruel, what you’re doin’ right now.”

She laughed aloud. “I’m not being cruel, I’m being encouraging. Chop-chop, now, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3's out now too, like I said I want to get this thing out there. Now that the ball is rolling, I'm not sure if I'll be uploading them AS fast, but it'll still be pretty frequent. The next few chapters is where shit really starts to pick up, so I hope you guys are enjoying this so far! Feedback, if you have any, is really appreciated, so fire away if you'd like.


	3. Cornered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's Row is home to a multitude of criminals and people of questionable intent. The streets can prove to be dangerous territory, some nights...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmhere you go

Mei delighted in the moonlit road that stretched out before her. The muffled cheers of the vivacious townsfolk in the pub, fading away slowly as she strolled; the scent of rain off the glistening cobblestone road; the rhythmic dull clacking of her shoes on the sidewalk echoing down the street; they painted a lovely scene, one which thankfully acted as a good distraction, for a time.

She worried if she’d made her leave too obvious, or if she’d cast a cloud over things. This entire “crush” was so damned childish.

As she approached the end of the block, she saw a group of three men walking in the opposite direction across the street. Their footsteps grow less frequent as she passed them. They had slowed down.

She felt as if they were staring at her. Her enjoyment of the scenery quickly turned to unease. She thought about going back to the pub, but they were already behind her, and she was a block and a half away, now.

She turned onto a side street. They were following her, snickering menacingly. One of them shouted something at her, but she paid them no heed.

The mouth of a narrow alley came into view. They were trying to surround her—she couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back. She cut through the alley to try and lose them on the other side of the block and double back to the pub, realizing she had no other choice. She turned a corner.

Dead end.

She spun, and the three men had converged behind her. Typical disheveled delinquents—one had a tattoo of a shining lightbulb on the side of his shaven head.

“What’s the matter, love?” One of the hooligans began, feigning amiability. “All’s we thought is that you looked a little familiar, figured we should get a better look at you.”

She sneered. “You’ve had your look. I don’t want trouble.”

“ _That’s_ where I recognized you from,” another growled. “I’ve seen you on TV before, I have. You was part o’ that Overwatch bunch, wasn’t you?”

They weren’t going to back down. She took note of their positions.

“We’ve got ourselves a celebrity, it would seem!”

She judged the time it would take for each of them to reach her.

“Always wanted to have a celebrity to myself.”

The element of surprise was on her side. They had made the egregious error of underestimating her.

A pause.

They darted forth.

With a swift movement, Mei kicked the leg out from under the man on the left as he closed in and pulled the thick pin from her hair. She hit the centre man in the neck, and pierced the pin into his shoulder. He cried out, and fell. The man on the right swung wide. She grabbed his arm and knocked him to one knee, slamming her knee into the centre of his face and breaking his nose. She turned back to the other two assailants, knocking them down again, harder; one with the heel of her palm, the other with the heel of her foot. She redirected her attention once more to the third attacker.

Too slow.

A fist struck her in the abdomen, then in her face, knocking her to the pavement. She was dragged back towards the end of the alley, held to the ground by her arms.

The trio spewed expletives furiously. Blood poured from one man’s nose, and the other man whom she had stabbed had a shirtsleeve wet with blood.

He drew a knife and started towards her. She writhed to escape their grasp, but to no avail; she couldn’t move.

A silhouette suddenly appeared behind the man brandishing a knife, a head taller than him. He turned slowly to face him.

A cold steel hand wrapped around his throat. He grasped at it, struggling for air as his feet slowly left the ground. He rasped arrhythmically, dryly, desperately.

The figure turned and threw the man behind him. His pelvis smashed into the side of a dumpster with a loud, jarring thud, and he flipped violently into the metal wastebin.

The other two turned their attention to the new threat. The man took a moment to tip his wide-brimmed hat to them in menacing sarcasm.

They flanked him. He leapt to his left, digging his shoulder into one man’s chest and pinning him against the wall. The other man made use of a wooden board that had been lying in the alleyway and swung it at his new attacker. The figure bashed his metal forearm into the makeshift weapon, shattering it to splinters.

He grabbed the criminal’s head and smashed a knee into his temple. He fell, limp and unconscious. The other had risen to his feet, and cleaved his fist into the figure’s jaw. Unhindered by the blow, he slammed his forehead into the bridge of the shorter, weaker man’s nose.

Aside from the occasional barely-conscious groan, there was naught but silence now.

“You alright, little lady?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to mind for some reason. She slowly began to stand up, and he rushed to assist her.

“Thank you, Jesse. For… For coming when you did.”

“Any time. How’re you holdin’ up? Let’s get Tracer and we’ll head home.”

“I’ll be fine.” She touched a wound on her face with her fingertips, grimacing slightly. “Yes, let’s go.”

The third man slowly regained consciousness. Upon noticing Mei and McCree standing over him, he began to panic, and crawled away.

“‘Scuse me for a moment,” said McCree, gesturing Mei to stay put.

He walked briskly over to the trembling hoodlum and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. He was whispering something to him. Mei could not hear the specifics, but from the quick nodding and contorted expression of dread the young man bore, it left little to the imagination.

The two left the alleyway and returned to the pub to find Tracer laughing with the bartenders. Her face became fraught with concern upon noticing them; they would explain on the way back.

 

*******

 

Mercy was inside the physician’s office re-sorting medical supplies to her liking for the third time when she heard the door open. Tracer, Mei and McCree stepped inside, a little worse for wear.

They explained what had happened while Mercy saw to Mei’s minor wounds—a small laceration on her face and a contusion on her abdomen. She applied a regenerative salve, healing the lesions in mere minutes. McCree applauded Mei in the retelling of the events, saying she had “roughed them up something fierce” by the time of his arrival.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back. In spite of the rather dire subject matter, she was heartened by the compliment.

“Any nausea?” Mercy asked.

Mei shook her head.

“Headaches, dizziness, drowsiness?”

“Nope.”

“Excellent. Seems to me you’re perfectly well, Mei,” Mercy replied. “Ah, yes, Lena, there was something I wanted to mention to you; Tekhartha Mondatta is delivering a speech in King’s Row tonight. I know how much of an inspiration he is to you, I thought you would like to know.”

Tracer beamed. “Mondatta’s here? I’d love to hear his speech!” She quelled her excitement, however, looking to her friends. Mei knew what the look meant, and smiled appreciatively.

“I’m okay, you can see him,” she said jovially.

“Are you sure?” Tracer inquired further—the last thing she wanted to do was to leave her if she needed anything.

Mei happily relieved her. Tracer clasped her in her arms in giddy excitement, and left for the streets of King’s Row.

“You’re free to go, _meine_ _liebste_ ,” Mercy said with a warm smile. Mei and McCree thanked her generously.

As they left, Mei stopped him in the hall.

“Thank you, Jesse. For everything you did tonight.”

His rugged features formed that demure expression of his. “Sure thing.”

The two paused with locked gazes. Now seemed as good a time as any.

“I constructed an artificial microclimate in the lab,” Mei began somewhat nervously, not knowing of anything else to say. “Feel like performing some climatology tests with me?”

McCree grinned. “This your idea of a date?”

She stammered, and felt her face grow hot. “Well, no, I— if you’d like to—“

“I’m just pullin’ your leg,” he said, chuckling. “I’d like to tag along. ‘Sides, you beat me to the punch, anyway.”

“Beat you to the punch?”

“Yeah. Y’asked me first.”

A bright smile slowly played across her face, and she laughed diffidently. She felt… lighter. Like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Do I get a labcoat?” McCree asked as they began on their walk to the lab.  “I get a labcoat, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys kinda know how that Mondatta thing ends by now. Shit, eh? Tracer's on her way to the Alive short. Some familiar (blue) faces are on the horizon, 'twould seem.
> 
> *an ominous "HON HON" echoes in the distance*
> 
> Anyway, the next few chapters will be up soon! Hope you've enjoyed it so far!


	4. Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The order is finally received to remove Tekhartha Mondatta. Tracer tries to prevent it from being carried out.

A cold breeze permeated the vacuous third floor of the abandoned distillery. The air was imbued with the dwindling stench of charred oak and malted barley, an odour which Widowmaker had grown used to over the course of her two-week tenure in the building.

She sat and cleaned her rifle with surgical precision. She checked the time; field-stripped, cleaned, oiled, and then reassembled in two minutes and fourteen point two-nine-five seconds. Three hundredths of a second quicker than last time.

An LED on the gauntlet mounted on her left forearm began blinking, and emitted a faint, high-pitched tone. The specific pattern it signaled meant a dead drop had been left for her. She tapped the small display, and a three-dimensional holographic map depicting King’s Row emerged from her wrist. The dead drop was placed atop one of four smokestacks of an old steel mill.

She retrieved her equipment and slung her rifle over her shoulder, climbing through a broken window and scaling the building to the roof.

She made her way from rooftop to rooftop towards the steel mill at a tempestuous pace, with foxlike deftness. She closed the distance silently, expeditiously. Not a soul saw her wander.

She had reached the steel mill in short order. She launched the grappling hook from her gauntlet to the stack’s peak, ascending it quickly.

There lay the dead drop. It would only reveal its contents at the utterance of a particular phrase. Widowmaker brought it to her lips, and whispered her adage.

_"Araignée du matin, chagrin, araignée du soir, cauchemar.”_

The tiny cylindrical case cracked open. Inside, on a small display, read a name. She smirked devilishly.

Mondatta.

 

*******

 

A crowd of humans and Omnics alike gathered in the square between The Meridian and the Alderworth Hotel. Tracer urged her way into the huddled mass, eager to see Mondatta appear.

Tensions between humans and Omnics were particularly high in King’s Row; pogroms would rage in the streets, and citizens would clash with the police force in large-scale confrontations—frequently enough that news of yet another stand-off was no longer surprising.

Seeing them standing together for a common cause made it feel like real progress was being made.

A suited and armed security detail stood to the left and right of the Meridian’s main entrance, with armed guardsmen positioned strategically on the surrounding rooftops. Myriad signs peered over the writhing crowd, depicting symbols of peace. The mass of onlookers chanted Mondatta’s name.

Tracer made her way closer to the front of the crowd, politely excusing herself as she brushed past people’s shoulders. As she drew nearer, Mondatta revealed himself, taking stance at a podium. The assembly of observers and activists cheered and expressed their love for the Shambali leader. He looked out over the concourse.

“Human,” he began, “Machine—we are all one within the Iris.”

The crowd roared.

“Before me I see the future. Humans and Omnics standing together. United by compassion, by common hopes and dreams.”

How naturally it came to him to be able to uplift people, to be able to distract them, if even for a moment, from the horrors of the world with talk of a bright and hopeful future! Tracer made a mental note to thank Angela for telling her about tonight.

She noticed something peculiar that tore her from her awe. An officer held a hand over the transmitter in his ear, looking to the rooftops. Strange. Tracer, too, turned her gaze to the buildings. A guardsmen altered his patrol pattern.

Something was awry. She left the crowd.

She blinked upwards to the roof of a building, skulking across it and scanning her surroundings for threats; guardsmen in the distance, searching feverishly for the origin of the disturbance; rats lifting their heads from their dogged pursuit of rotten sustenance to inspect her as she approached, quickly scurrying off; otherwise, nothing seemed—

There. Two structures away. Moonlight gleamed off of a pliant, black metal tether. It wrapped around a brick chimney, and hooked over the edge of the building.

She ran to it like the wind, and leapt over the edge.

Widowmaker hung suspended above the street, taking aim at Mondatta. She heard Tracer’s footfalls, turning to face her and aiming her weapon as the girl suddenly flew through the air towards her.

The two opened fire at one another. Tracer rebounded off the side of the building, landing on a mezzanine across from Widowmaker as she swung through a window into the apartment complex.

“Trying to crash another party, love?”

Tracer aimed her weapons at the assassin with a derisive laugh.

They engaged.

 

*******

Her eyes snapped open. Intense pain shot down Tracer’s leg and across her chest. She was dazed. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts.

_Widowmaker. Slammed me into the side of a building. Damaged my accelerator. Can’t use it right now. Chest feels bruised like hell. Fell from the point of impact onto the street. Landed on my side. Leg is bollocked._

_…Mondatta’s dead._

_I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t save him._

She fastidiously turned onto her back, cursing as she stood in defiance of the searing pain coursing through her leg and chest. She looked at the clocktower. 11:00 PM. Dammit; nearly half an hour had gone by. She had to get home.

She slowly scaled the fire escape of the building she’d landed on. Applying any pressure to her leg caused a great deal of discomfort. She shifted awkwardly on the ladder.

Her foot slipped. She plummeted eight feet and slammed into the ground, shouting through clenched teeth.

“Agh, _bastard!_ ”

She got to her feet and walked as quickly as she could, but her injuries slowed her down considerably. She adjusted her harness. The accelerator flickered blue, but struggled to reawaken.

The seven blocks between her and the subway entrance had felt like an eternity. She approached the maw of the station and turned back to the clocktower in the distance, still large and imposing. 11:38 PM. She descended into the metro.

The freight elevator door slid open. She shifted her weight to her left leg and stood awkwardly as she descended. The long corridor to the main blast doors felt lengthier than usual.

Nobody was in the lobby. It was likely that most of them were asleep. Tracer made her way to Mercy’s office.

She banged on the door. Silence. She knocked again.

It opened. Mercy inhaled sharply.

Tracer smirked, her smile appearing much more like a grimace than a salutation. “Hey, Angie.”

Mercy ushered her in, and helped her onto the examination table with care.

“What’s happened, Lena?”

“Mondatta,” Tracer began. “He’s dead.”

The sound of medicine bottles being brushed aside across wooden shelves ceased as Mercy stopped cold, her back now turned to Tracer.

“Dead? How? What happened?”

Tracer became angry. Furious.

“I wasn’t fast enough, that’s what _bloody_ happened!”

Mercy consoled her, and urged her to start from the beginning as she treated the injuries. Tracer relayed the events to her; her arrival, where it had taken place, her noticing of the unusual behavior of the guards, and finally, the assassin.

“Widowmaker. She’s the one that shot him.”

Mercy thought on it, and the dire implications that would doubtlessly accompany it. “So Talon is responsible. I can’t exactly say I’m surprised.”

She changed the subject to Tracer’s condition. “You have a sub-periosteal hematoma on your hip and leg, and a bruised sternum. The injury to your chest is rather minor, your harness took the brunt of the impact. Your leg and pelvis are in slightly worse condition, however.” She handed Tracer a small opaque orange bottle.

“These are for your chest. As for your leg and hip, I’ve injected a biotic bonding resin to the affected areas. Take one of those pills every five hours, get your rest and check in with me whenever necessary and I estimate you’ll be back up to scratch in no more than two days. Try not to exert yourself, either, that will only make it worse.” Mercy paused, then laughed gracefully. “You’ve kept me busy tonight, that’s certain.”

“Thanks, Angela. Takin’ good care of me as always.” Tracer stood up carefully from the table. Before she left, Mercy stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Do yourself a favour, Lena; don’t blame yourself for Mondatta’s death. Widowmaker is quite literally a living weapon. There isn’t a person I could imagine that wouldn’t have their work cut out for them against someone like that.”

Tracer smiled brightly, thanking her dear friend for putting her mind at ease. Or trying to, at least.

There was something else about Widowmaker that set her on edge, something that took precedence in her mind over her inability to prevent Mondatta’s death. Her voice, her face… Both seemed eerily familiar, but she didn’t rightly know how or why.


	5. Mobilize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time has passed since Mondatta's assassination at the hands of Widowmaker. Winston decides that Overwatch has been idle for too long; if they're to regain a foothold, now is the time to start acting again.

“ _Some are quick to impose blame on the disbanded peacekeeping organization Overwatch, as reports state that a former Overwatch agent was seen on-site at the time of Mondatta’s assassination. Whether or not that is indeed the case remains to be seen. The United Nations and its representatives—formerly responsible for sanctioning Overwatch and the missions thereof—have been negligent to comment on these allegations thus far_.”

“Athena, please turn that off,” Winston asked tersely.

“Of course. Winston, please try to remain calm.”

“Are you monitoring my vitals again?”

“No. I am, however, intelligent enough to discern that you are deeply troubled.”

Winston fumed, standing up from his seat and walking impatiently around his lab. “How long have we been here, Athena? About a week? About a week, and Talon has already been successful in an operation that must be no less than integral to their plans, whatever those are.”

“You don’t mean to imply that Miss Oxton is somehow at fault, do you?”

“No, no, of course not. What else could she have done in that position? All I’m saying is that we need to act. We haven’t been able to do much yet, unfortunately. We’ve only just settled in, and Talon is already a step ahead of us.” He paused, lowering his voice. “They have been for some time now...”

Winston halted in his pacing. He sat back at his desk with renewed determination.

“Athena, pull up the footage you found of that dropship again.”

A window popped up on the large monitor at Winston’s desk displaying footage that Athena had pulled from security cameras all across the city. She enhanced a specific camera feed that showed a low-flying aircraft, barely legible against the night sky.

She had cross-referenced the shape of the craft with known Talon air vehicles. It had been a match. That was unquestionably the ship Widowmaker had left on.

The footage showed the ship flying on a west-southwestwardly course towards the Atlantic.

“Expand the search radius again. Uncover any footage you can from the past two days. Coastal cities, anywhere in the Iberian Peninsula, anything. Access military satellite imagery if you have to, by any means necessary.”

Winston began counting the seconds in his head as Athena set to work.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

“I’ve found something.”

“Excellent work, Athena,” Winston marveled. “Show me, please.”

“I’ve found satellite footage and a coastal camera feed of a ship of similar size and shape beginning a descent over the Balearic Islands two days ago. It appears to have landed in the Serra de Tramuntana mountain range.”

Winston laughed aloud. “You never cease to impress. Their base is somewhere in that pass, it has to be!”

“May I make a suggestion as to whom we should send on a mission there?” Athena asked, knowing full well that that would be the next step.

“Of course.”

“Jesse McCree would be my first choice. His expertise as a former member of Blackwatch grants him greater interpersonal insight into Talon than any other Overwatch agent. Genji Shimada and Lena Oxton are other likely candidates on account of their aptitude for quick and quiet movement. An infiltration party any larger than three is like to draw attention.”

“Exceptional thinking, I couldn’t agree more. Gather everyone in the lobby.”

           

*******

 

The agents of Overwatch assembled. They conversed with one another, wondering at what their congregation could have been for. An assembly of their numbers—especially one as sudden as this—was typically a grim affair. A dangerous mission needed undertaking, or a delicate situation, the gravity of which usually amounted to nothing less than integral to international safekeeping, had arisen. They suspected this would be no different.

Winston stepped out from his suite and placed his large hands on the railing of the catwalk overlooking the room. Everyone turned to face him.

“I’ll get straight to the point.” Winston’s voice boomed and echoed throughout the large chamber. “Athena and I have located what we believe to be Talon’s headquarters.”

Some of the agents stirred and whispered amongst themselves. Others stood in attentive silence.

"It’s located in the Serra de Tramuntana mountain pass in the Balearic Islands, an archipelago that lies in the Mediterranean Sea off of Spain’s eastern coast. Athena, if you’d please.”

Athena projected a topographical map of the location in question on the floor, outlining the narrowed-down location in red. The agents circled around it.

“We have chosen McCree, Genji and Tracer to infiltrate the base and bypass their network,” Winston continued. “Your job will be to map out their compound and gather any information you can that could prove vital; mission statements, objectives, weapons manifests, agent files, anything.

“Based on your past with Blackwatch, Jesse, you will be given tactical command. Unless, of course, there are any objections as to whom should be assigned to this operation.”

Pharah stepped forward. “I volunteer to remain on standby in the event of a complication.”

Reinhardt spoke up. “As do I.”

McCree offered his input. “Thank you both kindly, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Any more than three people gettin’ anywhere near the place is likely to get spotted. And no offense, big guy, but you’re pretty damn hard to miss.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Winston concurred. “We’ll have to rely on the abilities of Lena, Genji and Jesse alone for this operation. Are there any objections?”

Silence. A few shaking heads.

“Good. You’ll be flown out as soon as you’re ready.”

The agents scrambled. Genji, Tracer, and McCree moved quickly to prepare and gather any necessary supplies.

McCree entered his room. He loaded a bandolier and holstered his revolver, and donned his chestplate. Blue lights flickered on and the layered pectoral steel plating locked together as he secured it in place. His next stop would be the armory.

Mei awaited him outside his quarters.

“Hey darlin’,” he greeted. He paused to assess her face. “Worried?”

“Yes,” she responded. “I’m extremely worried. About Tracer, about Genji—but above all I’m worried about you.”

He smiled affectionately. “I know these Talon jokers’ tricks left right and centre. The tactics they use are tactics I was usin’ back when they were still learnin’ their A-B-Cs.” He paused, and lifted his hand to her face.

"Besides, you think I’ll let some two-bit Talon grunt deprive me of the pleasure of comin’ back home to that beautiful face o’ yours? Not a chance in frozen hell.”

She smiled, poorly veiling her concern. She reached up and touched her lips to his cheek.

“See you soon, huckleberry,” McCree comforted.

“Mhm. See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit, s'bout to get real. The next chapter's a pretty lengthy one, I'll be putting it up tomorrow. I'll probably just keep updating this thing daily henceforth because I'm pretty pumped to get it out there. Hope you guys are digging it!


	6. Incursion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer, Genji and McCree infiltrate the Talon base in an effort to uncover their secrets, and hopefully find a chink in their armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm uploading this at 1:00 AM because that means it's the next day and I've been pretty excited about this chapter in particular, so I'm gettin' it out there, dammit. There's a couple others like that as well, but we'll get to those soon enough. Fair warning, this is kind of a lengthy one. Enjoy!

Wind rolled across the verdant hills, and stirred clouds of snow from the frostbitten mountaintops. It carried with it the saliferous odour of the Mediterranean Sea, the perilous nature of the situation before them belied by the serenity of their surroundings.

“Tracer,” McCree whispered loudly. “Pass me one o’ those sonar resonator things.”

She tossed him the device. He fanned it out in front of himself in an arc, close to the ground. It utilized echo-location to map out complex structures, natural or otherwise. Originally conceptualized for archaeological and mining capacities, it soon found military applications, which had luckily worked out in their favour, as it were.

They forged onward, wary of external cameras or traps. “Got somethin’,” McCree informed. “There's some big-ass room under our feet here, somethin' like a hangar. We're right on top of 'em. Eyes out for another entrance, this one's a no-go.”

Genji tapped the side of his faceplate. He was scanning for something.

“Follow me.”

He wandered close to a large rock formation. A monolithic stone façade towered over them.

“There’s magnetic fluctuations behind these rocks," he said. "I noticed them in the ground behind us, as well.”

“Locks on a door, maybe?” Tracer theorized.

“Precisely what I was thinking,” he replied.

He approached the face of the formation. He brushed his fingertips across it, occasionally knocking on the stone.

He found a seam. Imperceptibly small, enough so that few else could have noticed it.

“The entrance, it’s here. This is the door.”

“Damn fine work, Genji,” McCree applauded. “Everybody got their bypasses and resonators?”

Genji shallowly tossed a small rectangular device in the air. “Yes.”

Tracer frantically patted down her pockets. “Uhhh…”

McCree’s face twisted with frustration. “Tracer, I _swear to god_ —“

“Ha! Just kidding. Still got ‘em.”

Genji allowed himself a reserved laugh.

Their search for a control panel bore fruit, a small pad folding out from the rock. McCree stuck the bypass to the panel. Lights flickered along its length, and it emitted a high-pitched hum that grew higher until the panel blinked blue.

The jagged, grinding sound of stone against stone was almost deafening as the door slid open, slowly revealing the entrance. Red lights dimly illuminated the narrow passageway beyond.

“This is too small to be the main entrance. It looks like a maintenance access, perhaps,” Genji postulated.

“An entrance is an entrance,” McCree said. “Let’s get in there. Remember; Genji, you have the bottom levels, Tracer’s got mid-levels, and I’ll be takin’ upper levels. We’ll be too far spread out for assistance if one of us hits a snag—don’t break radio silence unless it’s absolutely necessary. Rendezvous is two hours and thirty minutes from now, so no lollygaggin'. See you two soon.”

 

***

 

Genji dropped from the ventilation shaft silently into the corridor. It had taken him considerable time to descend into the station’s bowels.

He took cover behind one of many steel struts that lined the walls. A patrol passed by at the end of the hall.

He took a right and crept behind them as they walked in the opposite direction. Words on the wall next to a door on his left read “Vehicle Bay”. He entered.

A vast, cavernous room lay before him. Guards walked its width in the distance. Massive vehicles turned and sunk deeper into the floor, the hydraulic lifts upon which they sat echoing in the expansive chamber.

To Genji’s right was a stack of crates. He hid in their shadow, in the corner of the great room. He tossed one of his resonators into a floor-level vent, deeming it as suitable a place as any.

On the left wall, towards the back of the bay, was a door; the word “Stairwell” was painted on the wall beside it. It was likely that a server room or something of the like was deeper in the complex—that was his next goal.

He scaled the wall of the enclosed two-story structure behind him. Atop that, he made use of the catwalks and causeways to ascend to the steel beams overhead. The rafters would serve as passage.

No-one had noticed him. He crept along the beam at a painstakingly careful pace. It connected to a catwalk in the centre of the room, high above the ground. He hopped over the railing and made his way across.

As he approached the far wall, the door at the end of the catwalk cracked open.

Without hesitation, he leapt over the railing, turned in the air, and grabbed the edge of the walkway, swinging underneath. He clung to the bottom as two foot soldiers passed just inches over him.

Of course they had to stop directly overhead. It would have been too convenient for them to keep going.

He waited until they continued on and walked down the steps at the other end before swinging back up to the bridge. The cylindrical heat sinks in his shoulders protruded, dispensing thermal buildup with a hiss.

He entered the soldiers’ point of egress, and turned right. He found himself at the top of the stairwell he had seen from the hangar. Tucking in between the flights of stairs, he plummeted to the bottom; descending them would simply slow his pace.

Mere rooms away was the server chamber. He stepped inside, ankle-deep in coolant. His cybernetics regulated his core temperature to match that of the room.

He planted his bypass firmly on the mainframe computer, and the hack began.

 

***

 

McCree had narrowly avoided detection on numerous occasions.

The base was rife with far more Talon soldiers than he had anticipated. He knew that Talon had a great deal of manpower at their disposal, but he had not seen the fullest extent of their numbers for himself. The complex in and of itself was appalling—its size had dwarfed any and all expectations. He guessed that Tracer must have been hundreds of feet below him, and Genji even further still.

He proceeded attentively. His resonators had been placed in what he hoped were suitable, esoteric locations. The task at hand now was to locate information. It was unlikely that a server room would be so close to the top of the base. He would have to find something else.

He peeked around a corner. The air in his lungs froze.

Reaper.

Two soldiers accompanied him, walking behind his tall, imposing figure. McCree hid behind a steel protrusion on the wall. He slowly drew his revolver.

_Turn the other way, turn the other way, turn the other way, please turn the other way…_

Reaper and his party turned and walked right past McCree.

He dared not breathe.

As they passed him, he turned the corner from which they came with as much silence and agility his legs could muster. He hid again.

The footfalls stopped.

Reaper paused to look around behind him. He walked back to the mouth of the hallway, his eyes shooting about the bulkheads.

Silence. Agonizing silence.

He turned away again after far too long, resuming his excursion.

McCree slowly exhaled a sigh of what he could only describe as bliss.

He slinked into the room at the end of the hall—free of soldiers, much to his relief. It appeared to be a boardroom of some kind. Where briefings took place, maybe.

High on the wall was a holographic screen. On the screen were several icons with text below them. One of them read “Mission Directory”.

McCree guided the cursor over the file and opened it. A barrage of information assaulted the display.

_RECOV:DOOMFIST////STATUS:FAILURE_

_INFIL:GIBRALTAR////STATUS:FAILURE_

_MONITOR:SOMBRA////STATUS:ACTIVE_

_ELIM:MONDATTA////STATUS:COMPLETE_

_ELIM:GLASKONOVIC////STATUS:PENDING_

Many other files filled the screen, but he had not the time to sift through them. He planted the bypass, and impatiently awaited its completion.

 

***

 

The name “Administrator Carthen” was embossed on a gold plate on the wall next to the door. Tracer opened the entrance, and scanned the room with lightning quickness. Empty.

She stepped inside. The room was rather ostentatious in comparison to the rest of the compound; brass pots housed large ferns in the corners of the room; an intricately-carved sandalwood figurine of an owl stood on the left-hand side of the white plastic arched desk, behind which sat a pod-like chair. Tracer thinned her lips into a mocking frown at whoever “Administrator Carthen” was; whoever they were, they were pompous beyond compare.

_Good lord, buy a golden toilet while you’re at it, you douche._

She pushed the chair aside and used her bypass to access the computer. She quickly skimmed over innumerable files and records.

A thought crossed her mind. She opened the agent directory.

She halted, her hands hovering over the keyboard.

_Just finish the hack and leave, Lena. Now’s not the time for this._

She sighed.  Her curiosity got the better of her.

She typed “Widowmaker” into the search criteria. She opened the dossier that appeared, and her eyes danced across the record.

_Name: Amélie Lacroix_

_Date of birth: March 8, 2043_

_Place of birth: Annecy, France_

_CHRONOLOGY OF INDOCTRINATION_

_August 15, 2066:_

_Gérard Lacroix continues to be a thorn in Talon’s side. Assassination attempts have been made, however none have proven successful. Will have to orchestrate something else._

_August 22, 2066:_

_Amélie Lacroix—Gérard’s wife—is now the current target. Retrieval of subject and subsequent mental and physical alteration will be underway very shortly._

_September 1, 2066:_

_Subject acquired. Whereabouts unknown to compatriots. Testing and mental reconditioning to take place soon._

_September 9, 2066:_

_Serendipitously enough,_ _Gérard Lacroix was abusive. Subject shows remarkable inclination to reconditioning as a result. Neither Talon, nor Overwatch, most likely, knew of such on-goings. Irrelevant; sub-conscious homicidal tendencies beget an easier reconditioning process. Estimated completion time is seven days at most._

_September 15, 2066:_

_Subject has shown complete conversion in psyche; reconditioning successful. First target will be Gérard Lacroix. She will be instructed to return upon completeion of her assignment. Comprehensive training and physiological alterations to take place after arrival._

_September 29, 2066:_

_Lacroix dead. Subject has returned and been deemed “Widowmaker”._

_October 30, 2066:_

_Training and physiological alterations are now complete. Heart rate has been artificially slowed. Deoxygenation and deceleration of blood flow has resulted in cyanosis in her skin. Should mask her from thermal imaging and allow her to operate under high-stress conditions with inhuman level of composure, additionally. Widowmaker is a weapon given human form._

 

Tracer’s mind raced. She had far more questions than answers.

_Amélie?! It all makes sense… How could we have not seen this?! Her disappearance, Gérard’s death—it all adds up. And Christ, he wasn’t much better than Talon, by the sounds of it. Cruel irony’s what that is._

_They stole her life from her. Used her own misery against her just because it was convenient. Bloody hell, those heartless bastards… It’s so sodding unfair._

The unmistakable mechanical clicking of a rifle sounded from the room’s entrance, yanking her from her monologue. Her head shot up. Not wanting to waste even a second, she blinked towards the figure standing in the doorway that trained the weapon on her, kicking it from their hands.

 _“Bonjour encore, chérie,”_ Widowmaker greeted menacingly. _“Il est juste toi et moi.”_

Before she even had a chance to react, Tracer caught a boot in her stomach that sent her reeling back into the wall. She dodged out of the way, and a fist drove itself into the wall where her head had been not a moment before. She twirled around and slammed her foot into the arch of her attacker’s back. Widowmaker turned undeterred, and propelled herself towards her.

The two engaged in a deadly bolero; pirouettes, swift-flying fists, blows that knocked the air from one’s lungs, combat that was both brutal and graceful.

“Widowmaker, stop!”

Her assault ceased to falter.

“We need to talk!”

Tracer tried to avoid counterattacking now, resorting to simply evading her strikes. She had to get her attention.

_"Amélie!”_

Widowmaker paused. She held a countenance of righteous indignation.

“How do you know that name, girl?” The two stood at the ready, steeling themselves to resume their fight.

“I saw it. I saw your file. I know what they did to you.”

Widowmaker launched herself at Tracer. She pinned her to the floor.

“You know _nothing_.”

Tracer blinked away from underneath her, and backed away quickly. Widowmaker had the clear advantage; Tracer’s only hope was negotiation, something which could very well prove impossible. She would have to try.

“Hold on for a moment so we can talk, would you? I don’t want to fight you,” she pleaded.

“I don’t care what you want,” Widowmaker challenged.

“Just listen to me! Talon manipulated you! You’re just a puppet to them!”

“They saved me from a life of torment, gave me new purpose—“

“They didn’t save you, they just threw more fuel on the fire,” Tracer interjected. “Gérard was horrible to you. He abused you, and they knew it. They exploited you so they could remove a pain in their arse. They do the same thing now, only thing that’s changed is who’s at the other end of that rifle.”

“Thinking that I care about what they think of me is a mistake. I don’t need them to.”

Widowmaker darted toward her. She could barely avoid her onslaught; when her fists found their target, they hit with concussive force.

“What’re you trying to accomplish? Going to try and turn me to the side of good, is that it? Appeal to my sense of decency?” Widowmaker laughed, and spoke in between attempts at striking her. “You humour me, girl. You think that you and your pathetic band of oddities have some kind of monopoly on altruism, traipsing about fighting for good? When they barely gave a second thought to searching for me when Talon took me? They never cared. Don’t pretend that you do either.

“Talon gave me purpose! Gave me the tools I needed to steal the life from that pitiful creature I once called a husband. And you know what, girl? I _enjoyed_ it. Watching the life drain from his eyes and the air flee his lungs brought me greater bliss than you could possibly imagine.”

“You had every right to hate him!” Tracer implored. “But Overwatch had no idea—about him, or about where you’d gone; they looked for you for weeks! If we’d only known, god, if we’d only known, we’d have come for you!”

“ _Lies_ ,” she hissed.

Tracer was growing impatient, but she knew the situation at hand called for the opposite. “If you choose to stay with these people you call your saviors, then that’s fully within your right, but what I’m trying to say to you is that you _don’t have to_!”

Something interrupted. Something hard to describe, hard to fully understand in the brief moments that directly succeeded its occurrence. A pause.

A hesitation.

Widowmaker second-guessed herself. For the first time in her life, Tracer imagined.

“Talon,” Tracer continued, out of breath and pressing her newfound advantage, “didn’t save you. They changed you, altered you, into something altogether different because it suited their needs. They never gave you a choice, but I will; join Overwatch. They would welcome you. They would care,” Tracer wondered for a split second if that were actually true.

“You can make a difference for the better. Of course, I’m not forcing you to; Overwatch doesn’t have to be your next step. Could be anything you’d like. You can do what you want, what you _deserve_ , for a change. Not what Talon wants. Like I said, the choice is completely yours to make. All I’m asking is that you think about it.”

Silence pervaded the room. Long, eerie silence, like that before a storm.

“Leave,” Widowmaker said, almost inaudibly. Tracer looked shocked, her feet rooted to the floor.

“ _Leave_.”

The command urged her to motion, and she grabbed the bypass from the computer and made for the door. She halted in the exit.

“You’ll think about what I said, yeah?”

“Get out of my sight.”

Tracer obliged, hoping nobody had heard the battle rage in the office. She didn’t have time to care about that; she had to get to the rendezvous point.

Had the storm just ended? Or had it yet to come? She didn’t know. Only time would tell.

 

***

 

McCree and Genji had returned to the surface. They lay in a divot between two knolls, sequestered amongst bushes and tall grass. Their evacuation was set to arrive in fifteen minutes half a mile from where they currently sat, something which McCree mentioned time and time again as he grew more and more worried as to why Tracer hadn’t yet arrived.

She soon came barreling towards them in the distance, regrouping with them in short order.

“The hell happened to no lollygag—” McCree began in a humourous tone, but quickly turned serious. “Jesus, you look like hell. What happened, are you alright?”

“Yeah, sure, better than ever. Tell ya on the ride home," she said with a dismissive wave. "Shall we, lads?”

The three jaunted back to their landing zone. The dropship arrived shortly thereafter, and they piled inside. A chance to relax finally presented itself; they sat quietly for some time, allowing the autopilot to ferry them home.

“Tracer,” Genji finally said, breaking the quiet, “what happened? Are you injured?”

“Oh, nothin’ a pint and some painkillers won’t fix,” she said, followed by a drained laugh. She gathered her thoughts and exhaled.

“Widowmaker. Found me in some administrator’s office while I was accessing an agent directory.”

McCree’s eyes widened in concern. Genji sat stoically, but listened intently.

“Anyone with her?”

Tracer shook her head. “Just me and her. Wanted me all to herself, I suppose. Didn’t bother alerting anyone, the cocky bugger. It was a hell of a fight, but in the long run, I couldn’t have stood a chance.”

“How did you escape?” Genji inquired.

Tracer thought on how to respond. She had just invited one of their arch nemeses into their ranks; how could she tell them that? How could she tell them that she had just put all of their lives in danger?

Winston. She had to talk to Winston. She would tell no-one else before broaching the subject with him.

“Long story. Tell you back at base. Right now, I’m knackered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOOO NELLY THAT WAS ONE VERBOSE MOTHERFUCKER WASN'T IT? Longer than the others up to this point, at least.
> 
> As always, if you've got feedback of any kind, I'd love to hear it.


	7. Return Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji, McCree and Tracer return victorious from their infiltration of Talon's headquarters with unsettling information in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had no semblance of a proper sleeping routine for the past like two months so here's another chapter comin' atcha at 4:00 AM
> 
> UPDATE 12/26/2016: I FORGOT THAT ANA HAD SENT PHARAH A LETTER SO PHARAH WOULD ACTUALLY HAVE KNOWN SHE WAS ALIVE SORRY FOR BEING A FUCKING DIPSHIT JUST THOUGH I'D CLARIFY THAT SO YOU COULD KEEP THAT IN MIND

Tracer, Genji and McCree’s return was eagerly awaited; par for the course for an Overwatch agent returning home. Venturing out into the world had never been more dangerous for them than it presently was, given the state of their reputation nowadays.

Which made it all the better when they came back.

Mei launched from her feet at McCree, wrapping her arms around his neck as he caught her with a laugh. Reinhardt pulled the team of three into one grasp with a blaring laugh—blissfully unaware that he was depriving them of the much-needed ability to breathe, though they did not appreciate the gesture any less for it. Jack, naturally, shook their hands with a stoic firmness typical of his character. Tracer looked at the extended hand quizzically, opting instead to ambush him with a tight hug.

They went about their business after their mandatory post-mission examination with Mercy. Tracer desperately needed to talk to Winston.

She entered his room to the common sight of him hunching over his desk. “Hey, Winston.”

He turned his attention from his work. “Ah, you’re back! How’d it go?”

“It went well. Gathered some proper intel on Talon.”

“Excellent work, I—” he began beyond excitement, however it quickly waned. Something was wrong.

“Is everything alright, Lena?”

Tracer sighed. She sat herself in the chair at the corner of the room. “There was a hitch. That’s... actually what I came here to talk to you about.”

She relayed to him the story of her encounter with Widowmaker, of her discovery of the woman’s abhorrent past. He listened with bated breath, hanging on every word.

“Amélie… I’d always had a sneaking suspicion, but…” Winston gave his head a solemn shake. “The poor girl. And Gérard!" He threw his hands in the air. "How could we have been so blind?”

“She was always so lovely to everyone, she never let on that anything was wrong,” Tracer regrettably concluded.

“I suppose you’re right. I still wish we had been able to do something... But, back to your story; what happened next?”

Tracer sighed. This was where the crux of her dilemma lay.

“I negotiated with her.”

“Negotiated’?” Winston asked, amazed. “How?”

“I gave her a choice.”

Winston’s expression turned grave. Tracer mirrored the look—she was equally as worried.

“I told her she had the choice to leave Talon. To join Overwatch.”

He was taken aback.

“I know this could backfire, but please, I _really_ need you not to panic right now,” she said, hoping to placate him.

“I’m not,” Winston assured her, “I’m just– we have to be cautious. Widowmaker—Amélie, I don’t know—could show up under the guise of having wiped her hands free of Talon, and betray our location to them the very next day. To the UN, even, if she wanted to. Frankly, I’m not sure which is worse.”

“I-I know, but—” Tracer stammered, as she now paced about the room in a tumult of worry. “I’ve never known her to act the way she did. She’s always been cold, calculating, could always pull a trigger without a second thought and shrug it off like nothin’ at all. But when I said what I needed to say, she… She hesitated. Not just that; she let me waltz right out like nothing had happened. Could’ve killed me right then and there, wouldn’t have mattered at all to her! Why let me go if on some level she didn’t think I was right?”

Winston pondered the answers and their outcomes. He was always one to consider every possibility. It was one of the reasons Tracer always turned to him when in need of advice.

“What do I tell everyone else? You know how they'll react.”

Winston settled on an answer after some time. “Well, you can’t keep this from them. I’m sure you know that. Think of it this way: What are you more afraid of? The way they will react, or the possibility that they could be in grave danger? I should think the latter, yes?”

She nodded.

“Then tell them the truth. They deserve to know. They should be aware of the potentiality of an unpleasant outcome.

“Besides,” he continued, placing a great hand on her shoulder, “these people are our family. They know you. They know that you try to bring out the best in those you meet, regardless of the circumstances. They know that you’d do the same for them, if the proverbial shoe were on the other foot. They may not be happy about it, but they will understand.”

Tracer nodded again, letting out a sigh of mixed feelings. “You’re right. Thanks, Winston. Can always count on you, can’t I?”

“Always.”

 

*******

 

Pharah stormed out of the lounge without a word.

Reinhardt extended a gentle gesture to stop her, but she shook her arm of his hand. Mercy went after her.

Tracer felt gutted. She had betrayed her, betrayed them all. Maybe she had acted too impetuously…

No. There was no point in doubting her decision now. It had already been made. Winston was right—they may not take to the idea instantly, for which she could not blame them, but they would come to understand.

All the eyes in the room were trained on her once again. She forced herself to continue speaking.

“Widowmaker wasn’t always Widowmaker. She was Amélie, once. She was kind, and humane. You remember her. Almost all of you, I know you do. She was—" She paused, briefly lingering in thought.

Widowmaker never stopped being Amélie. It was easy to forget, but imparative that it be remembered. They weren't two different people—two sides of the same coin perhaps, but separate entities they were not. To conclude otherwise would be unfair. Unfair to her, to everything she was.

"She _is_ a good person," Tracer corrected,  "whose misery was exploited and used against her. If her allowing me to leave instead of killing me on the spot doesn’t indicate that there’s hope for her, then I’m not sure what will.”

The room stirred. They whispered amongst themselves.

“I know this is strange, and difficult. More difficult for some than others,” Tracer muttered as she looked to the exit. “But I feel it’s our duty to try and accept her. All she needs is a chance."

“And if she doesn’t get any better?” Torbjӧrn asked, displeasure in his tone. "What then?"

“That’s a bridge we’ll need to cross when and if we come to it,” she responded, wholly uncertain of what the answer was herself.

Torbjӧrn scoffed. Reinhardt took stance beside Tracer, dwarfing her stature.

“Please, my friends, patience. We’ve known Lena for a great length of time, during which she has never steered us wrong. If she has placed her trust in Amélie, than our trust should be placed with her too.”

He looked to his young friend with an assuasive smile. She felt more comfortable with him at her side.

Heads nodded in agreement. While doubts were clearly present, the news had gone over far better than she had anticipated. The address eventually drew to a close, and the agents returned to their agendas.

For now, she needed to see Pharah.

She found her sitting in her quarters with Mercy at her side. The two turned their heads to Tracer as she entered.

A renewed fire burned in Pharah’s eyes. She nearly launched off the bed, and backed Tracer against the door. She was tall, broad-shouldered, imposing—not a person one would wish to slight.

“She killed my mother,” she fumed. “My _mother_ , Tracer.”

Tracer said nothing. Mercy stood too, now. At the ready, behind Pharah.

“I’m sorry, Pharah, I—”

She laughed joylessly. “You’re _sorry?_ This is our family, Tracer! One that she has displayed no qualms in destroying, not once—and you invite her to join it?!”

If there was anything Tracer could say, it was not known to her.

“Didn’t you think for even one second that this might have called for a bit more consideration?! This could get us all killed! The least you could have done was talk to one of us about it beforehand!”

Seldom was she ever this perturbed. Even rarer so was it directed at an agent of Overwatch, let alone a close friend.

Mercy put a hand on Pharah’s shoulder. Her head turned in an instant.

“Hear her out, Fareeha.” Mercy’s voice was cool and soothing. Tracer wasn’t sure if there was anybody else who would have been able to quell her anger. Thank goodness she was here.

Pharah turned her gaze back to Tracer as she slowly backed away. Tracer exhaled for what she felt was the first time in ages.

“If Widowmaker is completely devoid of emotion, then she would’ve killed me without a second thought. But she didn’t; she let me walk right out the front door. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think she deserved a shot. You know that, Pharah. All I want right now is for everyone to at least consider giving her a second chance.”

Tracer smiled cautiously, reluctant to look Pharah in the eyes. Not out of fear, but out of the feeling that she had not the right to. “And, while you’re at it, do you think you’d be able to give me one, too?”

Pharah mulled over her friend’s words, stifling the anger inside her with a none-too-insignificant measure of effort.

“I need some time alone,” she said.

Mercy and Tracer allowed her that, and they excused themselves from her room. A mix of emotions hung in the cold air. Tracer leaned the back of her head against the door after it had closed.

Pharah was her friend, and she’d stabbed her in the back. The heart in her chest was as heavy as an anvil.

“She’ll be okay,” Mercy assured her. “She understands. You may not think so, but she does. In the meantime, get some rest, Lena. I’d say you deserve it.”


	8. Chance Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer finds that she is the recipient of an exciting, yet dangerous message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GATHER 'ROUND KIDS, we got two chapters today

Tracer’s eyes slowly cracked open to the sound of pounding on her door.

She lazily swung her legs out of her bed, pinching the bridge of her nose in trying to stymie the building irritation the abrupt awakening had caused. She leaned on the doorway as it opened, revealing an anxious Winston.

“Morning, big guy,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with her hand. “Something wrong?”

“Come with me. You need to hear this.”

She drifted out of her room. Winston led her to his station as she tried to avoid laughing; he was quite cramped, the dormitory halls being too narrow for his wide frame. His walk was reduced to an awkward shuffle.

“Athena, please play the message,” he asked as they arrived in his lab.

A gravelly, digitized voice played over the speakers in the room. Tracer was confounded, still trying to stir from her pseudo-slumber.

“What the bloody hell’s it saying?”

“It saying, ‘For the girl: King’s Row. The clocktower. When the hands strike midnight.’ Athena and I have seen the kind of encryption this message was encoded with before—it’s of Talon origin. It’s Widowmaker, it must be.”

Tracer chuckled. “Certainly has a flair for the dramatic, doesn’t she?”

“This is serious, Lena,” Winston interjected. “She wants to meet you. This could be a trap.”

“Or she’s come to tell us she’s left Talon.”

“Either way, this is important. And dangerous. We’ll have someone on standby, I’d recommend—“

“No way, absolutely not,” she declined. “She’ll know, trust me, and that’ll show that we don’t trust her. Sure, maybe we don’t right now, but we need to. I’ll go alone. I made the bed, I’ll be the one to sleep in it.”

He opened his mouth to object, but fell silent, realizing the futility in trying to convince her otherwise.

“Very well. Be careful when you go tonight, please. Pharah has been wanting to talk to you, by the way.”

“How is she?”

“Better than yesterday. Go see her.”

The moment Tracer found her, Pharah began to rave about how much she felt the fool after her outburst, rambling on so rapidly it gave even the verbose Tracer a run for her money.

She stopped her, stifling laughter again. Pharah’s demeanor was always one of equanimity—her current state was funny by virtue of sheer abnormality.

The two friends reconciled easily. That was good. Tracer would need to be at her fullest when the time to face Widowmaker came.

           

*******

 

The bell resounded across the sky above King's Row. Rain fell hard from the clouds, striking the pavement with alarming force. The hands pointed skywards on the holographic face of the clocktower.

Tracer entered at its base, and reached its peak promptly. She couldn’t help but find the location of their meeting to be actually quite funny; deciding to meet the girl who could leap through time right next to a giant clock seemed pretty on-the-nose.

Atop the tower, there she stood. Silhouetted against a bright yellow glow.

“ _Salut_ ,” Widowmaker greeted.

“Hey,” Tracer replied uncomfortably. “Got your message. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. I’ve given a great deal of thought to your proposition.” She sighed, and looked around the room as if searching for something in its walls. “I’m through with Talon. I’ve left.”

Tracer was shocked. Dumbfounded.

“Just like that?”

“Well, it wasn’t as if I provided them with a letter of resignation, obviously,” she said, a hint of condescension in her voice. “You were right. So I left without a word. If they haven’t realized I’m gone yet—which I find highly unlikely—then they will soon.”

Tracer was still unsure as to how she should speak to her. She decided it would be best to simply speak what came to mind.

“That’s fantastic! What’s the plan now? What’ll you do?” she asked, tripping over her own words.

“I wished to speak with you so that I might… accept your proposal. To join Overwatch.” Widowmaker looked as if she were almost embarrassed to ask. Tracer couldn’t rightly blame her; this meeting and the circumstances thereof were far beyond what the word “uncomfortable” could hope to describe.

In spite of that, Tracer was amazed. She had been cautiously optimistic that her negotiation had worked, but the degree to which it had succeeded was startling nonetheless. More importantly, Widowmaker was serious. Tracer fancied herself an excellent judge of character—she knew her words were truthful.

“You’re sure about this?” Tracer asked. “There’s nothing else you’d like to do? Like I said, your path’s your own, you don’t _need_ to—“

“Are you trying to dissuade me?”

“No!” She shot her hands in the air in placation. “No no no, of course not. I just want to be sure that this is what you want.”

“It is.”

“Brilliant, then!” Tracer belted out a jubilant laugh.

“What will your cohorts think? A former Talon assassin waltzing into their home?” Widowmaker’s tone could have been mistaken for mockery, but in reality she was genuinely concerned.

“I’ve talked to them about it quite a lot,” Tracer returned, still bursting with excitement. “Some of them are a little skeptical, to be expected, but most of them are actually on board. Ah, I knew you had it in ya, love!”

Widowmaker found that the girl was surprisingly endearing. She would at least be welcomed by someone, she thought.

“What shall I call you?” she asked. If they were going to be living among one another as friends, then they would need names for each other other than a patronizing utterance of the word "girl". Or a cockneyish "wanker".

“Call me whatever you like! Lena, Tracer, whatever strikes your fancy. What about you? Widowmaker? Amélie?”

She wasn’t quite sure. She hadn’t given the question much thought. A part of her thought that maybe Amélie was lost, but Widowmaker certainly wouldn’t do. A name given to her by the very same people that stole her life from her and fashioned her into their tool—unacceptable.

“Amélie, please.”

“Well, Amélie, it’s a bloody good pleasure make your acquaintance again.” Tracer extended a handshake, and an immaculate white smile parted her face.

Amélie allowed herself a restrained grin, and shook her hand.

 _Again_ , she thought. That was right; she had known Tracer once—another thought that she had not shed much attention upon.

“I knew you all, once,” she said, something like pain hitching in her voice. “I wonder how it will be to see them again…”

“I’ll give ya a refresher course, don’t you worry. You’ll all be thick as thieves before you know it!”

She would wait and see if that were true.


	9. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amélie finds that, to no surprise, living among the agents of Overwatch again is far from an easy transition.

“Welcome to Overwatch, Amélie.”

The doors parted, and the two stepped inside the spacious lobby.

Amélie felt like millions of prying eyes were boring through her. Some faces she did not recognize; others she remembered very vividly. Contempt, pity, acceptance—all these and more were the expressions that gazed upon her. She felt extreme discomfort.

It took some time for her to properly settle in. Even then, she felt as if she needed to tiptoe about, to avoid contact with everyone. These were people whose lives she had once threatened. To now be living among them under the same roof felt intrusive, unwelcome.

Her indistinctness of emotion was often mistaken as standoffishness, or anger, or perhaps even conspiration. She was shunned under the assumption that she would take any form of communication as a provocation. She was in constant unease, worried that reluctant acceptance would devolve into paranoia, and that paranoia would drive her to exile. Or worse.

Angela, who specified that Amélie was welcome to call her by name as she saw no reason to change that from before, was always kind, and Reinhardt was always gentlemanly, and the young musician was always polite and personable, but she received little acknowledgment from the others aside from awkward hellos and nearly-imperceptible nods.

How could she blame them for despising her? How could she fault them for keeping their distance? They had little reason to feel otherwise.

Tracer, on the other hand, never left her side since she had arrived. At first, it was rather annoying; her inexorable blitheness actually got on her nerves. Amélie resented that Tracer had taken it upon herself that she was some kind of guardian angel—it felt more like she was her babysitter.

Tracer was the only consistent company she had, however, sitting with her during every meal and eagerly offering her a place to stay. She even parted with some of her clothing for Amélie to wear. Tracer emboldened her, allowed her marginally more comfort than she would have possessed if she were alone. Admittedly, she’d taken quite a liking to the girl before long.

She awoke one morning to a hand gently shaking her shoulder, and a chipper voice in her ear.

“Amélie. Amélie. Rise and shine, love, Reinhardt’s makin’ breakfast.”

Amélie turned over and sat upright. Tracer was still clad in the clothing she wore to sleep.

She stood up from the bed and exited along with her roommate, glancing at the small couch along the wall that Tracer had turned into an impromptu mattress.

Sizzling and the scent of eggs and bacon hung in the air, alongside the bitter aroma of coffee. The timid murmur of quiet morning conversation filled the mess hall. Reinhardt gave Tracer and Amélie an enthusiastic greeting as they gathered their food.

“How’re you finding it here?” Tracer asked, the moment they sat down. “Like it?”

“I do. I’ve enjoyed it here, I’m just…” Amélie reflected, deliberating on how to respond. “I’m still adjusting. I feel like I’m constantly under scrutiny, like I’m intruding. I don’t fault anybody for it, it’s simply… proven difficult.”

“Aw. Well, you’ll get quite comfy here soon enough,” she said, sweeping a fork through the air. “And I know you’re worried about everyone else, but they’ll come around. Just takes some time.”

Amélie turned her attention from Tracer when she noticed Reinhardt walking towards them, plate in-hand.

“Would you ladies be so kind as to let me sit with you?” the towering man asked, with a gentle voice and a charismatic smile.

Tracer looked at Amélie with an expression as if to remind her that her assurance of “they’ll come around” was indeed coming to pass.

“Absolutely, sit on down,” Tracer welcomed.

The two made small talk. Amélie sat and enjoyed her meal in silence, so as not to interrupt them.

Hence her genuine surprise when Reinhardt turned the conversation to her.

“I’ve always found French to be such a beautiful language. Say, my lady… _Ce que la France partie…”_ He snapped his fingers, trying to conjure up the correct words and divulging that he was far from fluent in the language as a result. _“Partie êtes-vous?”_

Amélie was pleasantly surprised. “Impressive. Though, a little out of order. _‘Ce que la France partie êtes-vous’_ means ‘what France part are you from.’ Next time, try _‘quelle partie de la France êtes-vous._ ’”

Reinhardt laughed. “Still a tad rusty, it seems. Thank you for the correction.”

Tracer interjected. “You speak French?”

“Indeed I do, though I’ve a fairly cursory knowledge of it. I picked some up during my travels across Europe.”

“Huh. Neat, eh?”

“It is, yes,” Amélie replied. “To answer your question, Reinhardt, I was born in Annecy.”

His face lit up. “Annecy? I’ve been there! A beautiful city! I visited a lovely little bakery there called _‘Coin du Boulanger.’_ Do you know it? Their flaugnarde is delightful.”

Amélie enlivened. “I do, in fact! I used to go there all the time when I was a girl!”

Having found common ground, she was able to make conversation with someone other than Tracer for the first time in almost two weeks.

The two women excused themselves after finishing their food and conversation, for which they made sure to thank Reinhardt generously.

“What do you think, Reinhardt?” Jack asked him as he returned to his former seat. “Of Widowmaker?”

“Amélie.”

“What?”

“She prefers to be called Amélie.”

“Alright then, what do you think of Amélie?”

Reinhardt pondered briefly. “Our Lena always brings out the best in everyone. It’s something I admire a great deal about her. She seems to be no less qualified in doing so with Amélie, either.

“There is great sorrow in that woman’s eyes,” he continued, his gaze falling upon a random spot on the wall. “And regret. She does not expect forgiveness. Perhaps she does not think she deserves it. She feels haunted by her past, shackled by it, even. That alone speaks volumes. Forgiveness is the least we could do for her.”

Aftef a brief silence, Pharah interrupted it with a chuckle. “Anybody ever tell you that you have a very active imagination?”

He slapped the table with an open palm, and plates and cutlery jumped from its surface.

“All the time!” His laughter overtook every other sound in the room.


	10. Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time after Widowmaker's disappearance, Talon's headquarters is still reeling at her absence. Reaper provides his superiors an assessment of the investigation's current status.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's on the shorter side, but tomorrow's chapter'll be longer. Pinky promise. As always, enjoy!

Widowmaker had vanished. Not a trace of her whereabouts could be found. Unsurprising, as she was far too clever to leave clues. The complex-wide sweep had contributed no evidence. True, leaving without a trace was a specialty of hers, but to cut ties with Talon after so many years without any indication as to why was puzzling to say the least.

Reaper stood in a briefing room on one of the upper floors of the compound. On a large screen in front of him played the footage of the helmet-mounted camera of one of their agents.

He was in Russia. One of their targets, Glaskonovic, was in the assassin’s sights. He stood at a podium, addressing a large crowd as part of yet another noble but futile mission to ingratiate Omnics and humans to one another once again.

His death would have sparked discord among man and machine on a scale far greater than even Mondatta’s. With tensions as high as they were amongst the Russian people, it was nothing short of a powder keg.

That goal was thrown to the wind when the footage showed the sniper being turned onto his back, and having the butt of a rifle slammed into his forehead, shattering the camera. Through a broken lens, the footage showed a white-haired man wearing a leather jacket with a large “76” on its back, walking away from the incapacitated agent.

Reaper grumbled before editing the file. Widowmaker would have completed that mission in half the time with twice the measure of success.

_ELIM:GLASKONOVIC////STATUS:FAILURE_

He exited the room, and entered a pitch black chamber minutes later. As he approached the centre, dim lights and holographic displays flickered on. A semi-circle of large monitors stood before him. Outlines of featureless figures appeared on their screens.

“Where is she?”

The voice was grating, uninterested. It issued the question much less like an inquiry and more like an order. Reaper resented that.

“Still unknown. We’re looking into it.”

Another voice spoke, marginally more definable than the last. “We would imagine that you’re still ‘looking into’ the massive security breach three weeks ago as well, yes? The one that resulted in vital confidential information being compromised? Information which, we are to loathe to add, you have thus far been unable—some might even say negligent—to discover the exact nature of?”

“There’s nothing to discover,” Reaper rebutted. “It was Overwatch. They want information about us, it doesn’t matter what kind.”

“Of course it was Overwatch, fool,” a third voice said through the modulator that masked their identity. Even then, it was rather easy to tell that the voice was feminine. “We’re well aware of who, and a fairly good idea can be extrapolated as to why. There is no question; we want our resources recovered, and we want them eradicated.”

“I’m aware of that,” Reaper growled, growing more impatient.

“Then why isn’t it done yet?” The first voice spoke again, demanding an answer.

“Tracking down a highly-trained organization who likely has hidden bases all over the world is easier said than done. I assumed you knew that already. Apparently I was sorely mistaken.”

An undiscernible bitterness whispered out of the centre monitor.

The left monitor spoke once more. “And Widowmaker? Do you think her sudden disappearance is a coincidence?”

“You think she’s joined them?” the woman’s voice revolted.

“I said we’re looking into it.”

“When will that be concluded?”

“It’ll be ‘concluded,’” Reaper spat, “when we’re _done looking into it_.”

“Reaper, we’ve grown very t—“

He shut off the monitors. The thought of speaking with them any longer exhausted him. They made things far too complicated—too many tedious hows and whys. He was certain that if left to their own devices, they would argue semantics until the world ended.

It was simple, and obvious; Overwatch was responsible for the breach, and for Widowmaker’s disappearance. If she had indeed defected, then their focus should not be on locating her, it should be on preparing for a full-scale assault.

Reaper would not find them. He would let them come to him.

And then he would kill them all.


	11. Cutting Loose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer tries to ingratiate Amélie to the others once again. Between the two of them, something stirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops my hand slipped and I released another chapter today 'cause fuck it

“No.”

“Come on!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause it’s a tragic sight to behold, that’s why.”

“Quit bein’ such a stick in the mud, McCree.”

“For the last time, you are _not_ gonna make me dance.”

The lounge imbued with laughter as Tracer tried in vain to urge McCree to “cut loose and stop being such a bloody buzzkill.” He sat quite content with a drink in his hands among his friends, having since grown begrudgingly accustomed to the liquor offered in the lounge.

“C’mon. You’re the ‘smooth and suave Jesse McCree’, aren’t ya?” Tracer waved her hands through the air for emphasis. “Why won’t the smooth and suave Jesse McCree pull the stick out of his bum and have some damn fun?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Truthfully, he enjoyed the playful derision he was having with Tracer. That was more than enough to entertain him. She had a rather strange taste in music, in any case.

Tracer stood arms crossed. Mischief danced across her face.

“Fine. _Mei_ will dance with me.”

Mei’s head turned to her quickly. “What?”

Tracer grabbed her hand and pulled her from her seat. She swept from her phone on the lounge’s bar counter back towards Mei, music flooding the room.

“Oh my god, this music is _so_ _old,_ ” D.Va laughed. She spoke disingenuously, as if to poke fun, but a part of her was sincerely unimpressed with her friend’s choice of music.

“Why’s it matter?” Tracer argued.

“We gotta get you some new tunes, girl,” Lúcio chided.

“What’re you on about? These are classics, my friend, right outta Britain.”

Songs Lúcio and D.Va were quick to dismiss as prehistoric blared over the speakers, played by groups with strange names derived from hearing-impaired sub-Saharan felines and orchestras comprised of electrically-produced light. Naturally, only Torbjӧrn, Jack and Reinhardt had even heard the names before.

Mei ran over and pulled McCree from his chair, in keeping with Tracer’s scheme. He tossed his head back with a grin of feigned agony. He joined in the festivities, much to the delight of his friends, who he was certain would never allow him to live such a display down.

Regardless, it was greatly enjoyable. The trio turned and pirouetted, stepping quickly and joyfully.

Amélie peered into the room from outside, catching sight of the three of them prancing about. She slinked into the room, trying to remain unnoticed.

Their song ended, and the three erupted into laughter, along with the rest of the room.

She felt out of place for what she sure was the hundredth time. It was endearing, seeing the comradery. Truly, it made her happy to see. Irrespectively, she couldn’t help but feel out of her element. Her social ineptitude was something she had Talon to thank for.

All but Tracer resumed their seating.

“Heya, Amélie,” she exclaimed upon noticing her presence. Amélie returned a wave.

Tracer’s face brightened, her expression importing some sort of revelation.

“What kinda music you like?” she implored as she approached her. The assembly seated behind the lively girl glanced at Amélie, and to one another.

“Lena, please. I’d really prefer not to.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’ll be fun. Trust me.”

Amélie looked again at the crowd.

“Show them you can have a good time,” Tracer said, trying to put her mind at ease. “Believe me, it’ll work like a charm.”

Amélie sighed, cursing under her breath in her native tongue. “Very well.”

Tracer beamed, pulling her towards the centre of the room.

Music played anew. Tracer led the proverbial charge, laughing and silently singing along to every word. She danced around Amélie with elation so embellished it could have been mistaken for condescension by those who didn’t know her better, and threw her to and fro in an attempt to evoke some kind of emotion from her other than crippling embarrassment.

Much to Amélie’s surprise, it worked, and she found she was doing much the same soon enough, despite herself. She could not discern what it was specifically about the girl that was so galvanizing, but she was so enveloped in the gaiety that it did not matter anymore. Seeing her act the way she did, vivacious and free of worry—it was emboldening.

The songs ended, and their friends applauded. Tracer was unconditionally exuberant.

“Do you know what you did?” she asked, smiling with wild abandon.

“What?”

“You smiled,” she said, bubbling over with an overwhelmingly cheerful disposition. “Not that wry smirk o’ yours, either. You smiled! You had fun! You bloody _laughed_ _!”_

Amélie realized that she had smiled, and that she currently was. She brought a hand to her mouth to chuckle at the realization, and it quickly rose to a lively fit of laughter.

She was _laughing_. She was _happy_.

“D’you hear that?!” Tracer looked to the others in their seats. A mirthful smile adorned every face in the room. “Makes the music sound like shite, doesn’t it? I could listen to that for hours!”

Not heartless; maligned. Not emotionless; repressed.

Tracer changed that. She was probably the only one that could have.

The celebrations had finally drawn to a close. Everybody returned to their respective rooms with a fond goodnight, one that they each made sure to extend to Amélie as well.

“Lena?”

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to thank you.”

They’d been granted some respite in their quarters. Tracer fully turned to face her.

“What for? The dancing?”

“For everything,” she began. “It would have been immeasurably easier to dismiss me as a lost cause, but you didn’t. You provided me with a choice, a home, and a purpose. Clothing, even. I was little more than a stranger to you—in fact, I was your enemy, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t stop you.

“I haven’t laughed like that, or felt like that, in… a long time. A very long time… Nobody else would have done this for me. I feel like I belong somewhere again, and I have you to thank for that. For all of this.”

A streak of red tinted Tracer’s face, and she smiled affectionately as she felt it awash in heat.

“Thanks, Am. That's really sweet. But... You're the one that had the courage to take your life in the direction you wanted. I was just the middle-man. All this is on you, love.”

They stood across from one another in comfortable silence. Tracer threw her arms open, smiling widely, and hugged her friend tightly. The gesture was returned.

As they drew back, Tracer felt a coldness on her cheek. Her eyes widened in realizing that it was Amélie’s hand. She didn't move, her gaze flicking between the hand on her face and the woman to which it belonged.

Amélie was just as shocked, looking like she hadn’t even known she had done it, like it hadn't been of her own volition. She retracted her hand quickly as if recoiling from fire.

 _“Pardonnez-moi, qui était tout à—”_ She realized she was speaking French. She shook her head as if to dislodge whatever part of her had caused such improper conduct.

“I-I'm sorry, that was inappropriate, I—”

“No, no, it’s, uh—” Tracer interrupted her, her mind still reeling. “…It’s fine.”

They stood stagnant, unmoving. Soft, light-brown eyes flitted between piercing yellow ones.

Tracer, wordlessly and not daring to break eye contact, took Amélie’s hand and guided it back to her cheek. She luxuriated in its coolness.

Her mouth felt like cotton. Outwardly, she retained at least something akin to composure, or so she hoped. Inside her mind, fireworks sounded off, warning sirens blared, her own voice screamed at her— _do it, go for it, quit pissing about._

Looking down and back up, she leaned in.

Amélie closed the rest of the distance. Their lips met with a spark, cold intertwining with warm. They pulled themselves into one another, into the kiss, as closely as they could. Amélie felt more than heard Tracer's voice thrum against her lips.

Their feet shifted awkwardly, trying not to step on one another as they turned, refusing to move their bodies apart for even the briefest of moments. Amélie drifted her hands across every part of Tracer—of Lena—that she could, before lifting her up by her legs and pushing her back against the door.

Tracer wrapped her legs around Amélie’s waist, and her arms around her neck, pulling her closer, closer, as close as she could manage into their kiss, into her. Her fingers curled into her long dark hair. She darted her tongue into Amélie’s mouth, exploring and wandering with ardency. She felt Amélie’s against it, warm and slick and purposeful.

She felt the door peel away from her back, replaced moments later by the surface of the bed. Amélie fell onto her, the pressure of her weight against her own making her moan into her neck. Amélie sat upright, parting from her for a pause—Tracer almost whined in protest at the deprivation of her lips.

“Are you certain you’re okay with this?” Amélie asked. In her eyes lay worry—genuine concern. “I feel like I’ve forced myself on you… If you don’t feel comfortable going through with this, then I want you to tell me.”

Tracer smiled so wide it nearly split her head in two—the consideration she was shown did nothing but solidify her intentions. How sweet it was for Amélie to do that.

“I’m okay, Amélie.”

Amélie exhaled a sigh of relief. “Okay,” she replied, mirroring her smile.

Tracer responded with alacrity. Reaching up to hold her face in her hands, she kissed her deeply. She withdrew her hands from her jaw and unlatched the accelerator, careful not to throw it too far from herself—she thought that now was quite literally the worst possible time to be fading out of reality.

Amélie placed a hand just below Tracer’s collarbone and gently pushed her back into the bed. She trailed kisses from her lips to her waist, peeling away her shirt and waistband as she coursed across her body, lower and lower.

Tracer’s heart beat like a drum. She glanced down to see Amélie peering at her from between her legs. She opened her mouth to say something, but a sharp gasp took her words from her before she could say them, unable to suppress it even if she had tried as silken lips pressed against her. She rolled her hips into the motion, running her fingers through her hair and arching her back from the bed with a whimper.

She paused. Was she…?

“Are you speaking French?”

_“Oui. Jolie astuce très pratique, non?”_

“Marry me,” she laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who can guess the bands I alluded to that Tracer listens to in this chapter?


	12. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overwatch plans an attack on Talon's headquarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now, friendos. Only a few chapters left

Tracer drifted slowly into consciousness. Her vision was obscured by the striking face before her, close enough that she could detect the scent of lavender tempered with firearm-cleaning solvent.

She spent a length of time fondly recalling the events of the night before. She dared not move, dared not disturb her. She lay there, staring and thinking.

She finally glanced at the clock on the wall. 10:16 AM. They had slept in.

Amélie began to stir. Tracer brushed her fingertips along the length of her thigh—entwined with hers—over her mid-drift and up to her shoulder. Amélie exhaled a short laugh, her eyes still closed.

“Good morning, _chérie_ ,” she rasped.

“Good morning.”

Tracer lifted the long, dark strands of hair from Amélie’s face. They lay soundlessly again.

“Y’know,” Tracer began, “I hope this isn’t too quick for this sort of thing, but…” She trailed off.

“What is it?”

“I’ve spent about the last month driving myself batty thinking about that.”

“Hm. Can’t say I took you for that kind of woman, Lena,” Amélie teased.

“No, not that—well, not _just_ about that,” she conceded. Amélie grinned fiendishly at the red flush that pervaded Tracer’s face.

“About you, I mean. About, y’know, us. Together.” She briefly tarried in indecision. “What about you?”

Amélie threaded her fingers with Tracer’s, pulled her close, and pressed her lips to hers.

She reluctantly withdrew, albeit with a smile. “Does that answer your question?”

“…Sorry, I didn’t quite get that,” Tracer said through lidded eyes and a toothy grin. “Do you mind repeating that for me?”

Amélie laughed a quiet, song-like laugh. If she weren’t already laying down, Tracer was sure her legs would have liquefied at its euphonic tones.

“My pleasure.”

They drew apart once more. “We should probably get up and about, now,” Tracer urged.

“Soon. Let’s stay here just a short while longer.”

Tracer shrugged, pretending to acquiesce as if she needed any convincing, and shuffled closer to drape an arm over Amélie’s side, and settle her face into the slope of her neck. “Well, if you _insist_.”

 

*******

 

The two of them entered the War Room, impatiently awaited by the others.

“About time,” Jack said, a modicum of displeasure in his voice. He had an unspoken expectation of punctuality that required one to rouse from their slumber before the sun had even broken the horizon. “We have some things to talk about. Where’ve you two been?”

“We…” Tracer began, probing her mind for an acceptable response. “Didn’t fall asleep until pretty late last night.”

Amélie granted herself a sly smirk.

“Well pay attention, this is important.”

“Thanks to the mission directory that McCree recovered from the Talon base,” Winston began, “we’ve known what Talon’s moves have been. Jack was able to stop the assassination on Glaskonovic, but frankly…”

Winston tapped the surface of the table in the centre of the room, and it projected a hologram of a complex superstructure.

“I think it’s time we stop waiting for them to make the first move. This is the base that we mapped out four weeks ago; Talon’s headquarters. We’re going to bring it to the ground.”

Silent agreement from the room.

“Deep beneath the base is a series of superconducting ARC fusion reactors from which the compound draws its power.” The hologram changed, depicting one of the reactors in question. “Each is about the size of a shipping container, and are volatile enough that if we were to destabilize them, it would create a chain reaction that would level the entire complex. The question now is how to attack.”

“I have a suggestion,” Amélie offered. Attention turned to her.

“By all means.”

She swiped the table to return to the display of the Talon superstructure and expanded a specific location; a long, vertical, rectangular tube.

“This is a derelict elevator shaft. The lift was destroyed some time ago when seismic activity misaligned it with the grooves in the walls; it ended up plummeting to the bottom floor, and Talon never bothered installing another lift. I propose a small team uses the shaft to descend to the reactor chamber while everyone else launches a frontline assault. Buy them time to destroy the reactors, then we regroup and fight our way out.”

“Objections?” Winston asked. No-one opposed. “Excellent. Thank you, Amélie. Any ideas as to where the assault should be targeted?”

Jack approached the display next. “There’s a huge hangar at the very top of the base, looks like. Ground opens up for aircraft to land inside. We could drop right in from the outside. Plenty of room, open sightlines—seems as good a place as any.”

“Good call,” McCree spoke up. “It’s right near ground-level too, should make our escape easier.”

“Would you be able to get the doors open for everyone, Amélie?” Mercy asked.

“Yes,” Amélie replied. “I can sneak in and open them from the inside.”

“Any volunteers for the reactor team?” Winston inquired.

Amélie, Genji and Tracer raised their hands. Winston nodded. They would be able to scale the elevator shaft with relative ease. Everyone else would form the strike team.

“Excellent. Ready yourselves, everyone. We’ll be launching the assault in forty-eight hours.” Winston tapped the table’s surface and the hologram collapsed. “We finally have a chance to hit Talon where it really hurts. Let’s make good use of it.”

The room flooded out. Everyone filed out of the hall, whispering to one another about the briefing and the upcoming mission.

“Mei,” McCree said. “Mind if I talk to you for a sec?”

She nodded, and he pulled her aside.

“This is going to be a real dangerous op.”

“I know,” she replied, matter-of-factly.

“When we’re in there, bullets’ll be flyin’ every which way,” he said. “Stay with me. Don’t leave for a second.”

Mei smiled coyly. “I can take care of myself, Jesse.”

“I know you can, I’m just—“

He suddenly found himself being yanked downwards a head-and-a-half in height by the collar of his shirt, and found soft lips firmly planted on his.

She took his face in her hands.  “Don’t leave my side either. We stick together. Okay?”

He smiled, as if he were suddenly relieved by a certainty that she would be unharmed.

“Deal.”


	13. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overwatch commences their assault on Talon, hoping to bring them down for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOH SHIT Y'ALL IT'S 'BOUTTA GO DOWN. This is another lengthy one, so settle in and, as always, enjoy.

The line between home and tomb was blurred here; muddled in this torture chamber, this asylum. In hindsight, it always had been. Only now could the line be perceived with clarity.

Widowmaker’s home. Amélie’s tomb.

Now it was Widowmaker’s tomb. Now it was Amélie’s target.

Ironic, really. Burning it all to cinders was nothing short of poetry.

But were Widowmaker and Amélie truly two different people? Was this place actually a home and a tomb to one and a target to another? Did they really exist as different individuals?

A few weeks ago, her answer would have been a stalwart "yes". But a few weeks ago, there was no young and unerringly positive East End Londoner there to help her accept that the opposite was true.

A guard passed her unaware, extracting her from her briefly-distracting introspection. She wrapped her arm around his neck and dragged him, swiftly and silently, into darkness. The struggling ceased with a muffled snap.

She left her hiding place. The emergency switch for the bay doors was in her sight. The moment she flipped it, chaos would ensue. She forged toward it, careful of peering eyes.

The base was busier than usual—they were on high alert. They knew she would be coming, and with Overwatch in tow.

Amélie didn’t feel in the same way she once had. She felt happiness where once only killing brought her joy. She felt companionship and belonging where there had once been isolation.

That, however, did not change how she felt now, in this moment. She was glad they knew. Her vengeance would be made all the sweeter by it.

She flipped the switch, and the ceiling split down the middle.

_“Ainsi commence la fin.”_

 

*******

 

“How long do you think it will be?”

“I give it five minutes.”

“Five? I reckon it’ll take her three.”

“Willin’ to put money on that?”

“You betcha, cowboy.”

“Ten bucks.”

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

Tracer set her watch to count the time. Overwatch stood at the ready, checking their weapons and adjusting their armor. The assault would begin soon. Nervous wasn’t the word for it. Neither was scared—anticipatory, maybe.

The ground began to part before them. Tracer checked her watch. “Ha! Three minutes, twenty seconds.”

McCree groaned. “Fine, fine. I’ll pay ya when we get back.”

Reinhardt laughed aloud. His voice bellowed like a war horn. “Come, my friends! Let your retribution be as swift as your fury!”

He was the first to leap in. His steel-clad feet dug into the floor with a deafening boom. He brought his hammer down with such thunderous might that the floor cracked apart and shot spires of metal and concrete into the air, tossing soldiers up with them.

A hail of gunfire trained on him. He projected the barrier from his gauntlet, protecting himself and his comrades as they dropped in behind him. Gunfire spewed from every direction.

“ _Now!_ ”

Reinhardt collapsed the barrier. The agents of Overwatch parted and scrambled throughout the hangar. Talon mercenaries piled into the room in droves.

The cavernous hangar bay was alight with flames and arms fire in an instant, somehow not loud enough to drown out Reinhardt’s laughter.

He barreled into a stack of shipping containers with two men pinned to his shoulder. Apparently, the containers were full of munitions crates, as they burst into columns of roiling fire the moment that Reinhardt crunched into the metal. He emerged unhindered from the flames like a phoenix—a loud, seven-foot-four, perpetually-risible German phoenix.

Tracer looked up just in time to spot Pharah raining volleys of missiles down on their hapless enemies’ heads, splitting the walkways they were on into steel splinters. Those who weren’t incinerated were tossed from their perch, wailing in fear as they became gravity’s puppet.

Tracer and Genji searched the room for Amélie. It was hard to spot anything through the haze of smoke and the wall of gunfire. She heard the telltale cracks of McCree’s revolver, and Jack barking orders and directions, and D.Va’s mech pounding into the floor with each step she took closer to the enemy line. She saw Mercy twirling her Caduceus Staff overhead and smashing the end of it into the head of whoever it was that was stupid enough to get that close, and Lúcio tossing soldiers from the catwalks with concussive blasts as he surfed along the high walls, and saw a cargo truck launched into the air by a pillar of ice and flip on top of a squad of Talon mercenaries. Utter chaos, but no Amélie.

She listened, and waited for a clap of thunder to roll throughout the hangar.

There it was. Amélie’s rifle.

She and Genji followed its timbre; they found Amélie firing two shots that killed three men, before hooking the barrel around another’s neck and wrenching it upwards with a snap, his chest spraying jets of blood as his comrades tried in vain to cut her down. She was joined by Tracer and Genji in short order.

Amélie urged them into a door, firing behind them as they ducked into it. They wove through the maze-like complex. Small firefights among the narrow corridors punctuated their search for the elevator shaft.

They came to a set of large double doors. Amélie set to opening them.

A squad of soldiers appeared at the end of the hall, shouting. They aimed their weapons.

Genji jumped in front of Tracer and Amélie, deflecting the projectiles and sending them ricocheting off the walls back to those who dispatched them. Two soldiers fell. Tracer dove around him, pistols firing. Two more dropped. A three-pointed metal star pierced into the helmet of the fifth.

The doors opened, revealing an abyssal drop. The three jumped in without hesitation.

Making use of the grooves in the walls and the protruding ledges from underneath the innumerable doors, they descended into the depths of the base. The bottom was far down enough that they could hear nothing of the vehement conflict raging overhead.

They entered a room with walls lined with large round machines. They hummed loudly, imbuing the station above with power. These were most certainly the reactors.

Amélie tapped the control panels of two of the six reactors—that would be more than they needed to send the superstructure crumbling into the depths of the earth.

A timer appeared on the panel’s display, now blaring red. Eleven minutes and seven seconds.

“That’s how much time we have?” Tracer shouted over the noise.

“Yes. We need to move fast.”

Jack’s voice crackled over the radio. “ _Where the hell are you?”_

Tracer put two fingers to her ear. “We’re in the reactor chamber, Amélie just destabilized two of the reactors. We’ve got about ten minutes before this whole place goes up in flames.”

_“Well get back up here now! We’re getting torn to shreds!”_

“We’re on our way.” She dropped her hand from the transmitter. “Come on, we gotta move.”

They returned to the elevator shaft, moving with a speed as if flames were biting at their heels. They had reached the door they had opened.

They found themselves back in the hangar, the battle still raging.

A stray bullet struck one of the engines of Pharah’s Raptora suit, sending her careening into a concrete wall. She emerged moments later, still fighting, but grounded and battered.

McCree’s left shoulder was wet with blood. He swore through his teeth, firing at whoever he could. Mei sent men tumbling mid-stride with frozen stakes while Mercy saw to the wound.

Reinhardt spun in a brutal pirouette, pulverizing bone into dust. He was determined, and valiant, and deadly, but he was sustaining heavy fire. Torbjörn was pinned down and shouting obscenities at his assailants, his turret destroyed.

Lúcio and D.Va retreated behind a steel beam. His forearm and midsection had been grazed by gunfire. Her mech had lost an arm, and was black with scorch marks.

Jack lay bleeding behind a concrete barricade. He growled, and thrust upwards over the barrier, ignoring his injuries and firing into the soldiers to which the wounds were owed.

Winston, in a fervent rage, swung around the room, smashing holes in the floor and walls and tossing soldiers about like ragdolls.

Overwatch needed help. Genji and Tracer flanked the room and ambushed the engaged mercenaries.

Genji leapt off the wall and slammed a foot into a soldier’s temple, sending him flying over the railing of the walkway. He severed through the advancing line; he swung vertically as he sidestepped, cleaving a man’s arm in half at the elbow. He twirled around the supports in the ceiling with lethal grace, dodging gunfire and weaving crimson ribbons through the air with blade in hand.

Tracer dove under oncoming fire. She gunned down two combatants as she rolled to her feet without missing a stride. She slid and swept the leg out from under another, firing point blank into his head as he hit the floor. She hopped to her feet once again. She kicked high, driving her heel into the jaw of a Talon soldier before hooking her foot back and catching his neck in the fold of her leg. She dropped to her knee, snapping his neck with a twist.

Amélie positioned her rifle on a railing. She prioritized targets near the wounded; four shots, four men dove to the ground. She shattered the ankle of another, sending him into a dive off the end of a broken catwalk, and onto a fuel tank. She fired twice more. The tank erupted into flames, engulfing half a dozen more soldiers on the causeway above.

In the middle of the floor, in the midst of the fight, stirred a cloud of black smoke. Reaper.

He fired in every direction with wanton abandon. The agents of Overwatch and Talon soldiers alike took cover. Those who didn’t slumped into the floor, lifeless, regardless of whose side they were on.

The next thing Amélie knew, he had materialized next to her.

She turned to fire. He tore the weapon from her hands. He drew two shotguns, but she too disarmed him. The two engaged in a deadly fight—one killing machine against another.

“After all they did for you,” Reaper growled. “What a waste.”

She didn’t bother responding. She had nothing to say to him.

“So be it; just another name on the list.”

Reaper clasped a hand around her throat, drawing away his other hand, coiled back like a viper. She dug the heel of her palm upwards into his elbow and snapped his arm before throwing him to the ground over her leg. He planted his boots against her stomach and forced her away into the railing. He stood, yanking his arm back into place with a snarl.

He walked toward her and drew two weapons from his belt, and aimed.

Tracer blinked into him in a dive, tackling him to the floor. She fired until her pistol ran dry, without realizing he’d turned to smoke from beneath her and reappeared at her back.

He lifted her from her feet by the collar of her jacket. She blinked out of his grasp behind him. He spun, and she kicked him centre of mass, as hard as she could. He reeled back into the railing.

“I can do it too, tosser!”

Amélie fired twice into his chest, before throwing him from the catwalk. It wouldn’t be enough to kill him, nowhere close. Incapacitating him would be enough to keep him out of their way, at least.

“Leg it, Amélie! We’ve got to round everyone up and get the—”

She was interrupted by an explosion; a missile slammed into the wall not six feet from them.

When her vision cleared, Amélie was staring at the ceiling. She felt cold metal on her back, and a trickling sensation on her forehead. Her ears rang fiercely.

Voices screamed her name. Voices she couldn’t recognize for some reason, but in a strange paradox still somehow knew who they belonged to. There was another name they shouted.

A realization pulled her to her feet.

They screamed Tracer, and Lena. God, no, what happened to her?

Amélie flew to the railing, trying to find where she was. She spotted her in the middle of the room, limp and unmoving.

Reinhardt let out a cry; long, drawn out, devastated. He and Winston converged on her, shielding her from gunfire.

Amélie dropped to one knee and took aim. The soldier wielding the launcher hit the floor limp, spattering the wall behind him with blood and shards of bone.

Tracer had been thrown from a considerable height. Amélie vaulted over the railing, not caring how long the drop was. _Get to Lena, get to Lena,_ her mind repeated. _Get to Lena, get to Lena._ The distance between them felt like miles.

She knelt beside her and rolled her over. She was covered in blood. Her eyes were closed, the goggles around them shattered.

She picked her up and slung her across her shoulders as Reinhardt shielded their retreat.

The others ran to regroup, a hail of bullets still flying around them. They fired from behind Reinhardt’s shield with combined fury.

D.Va flew out of the hangar, Lúcio, Pharah and Mercy clinging to her sputtering mech. Winston had Torbjӧrn and Jack on his back as he leapt outside. Mei overloaded her endothermic blaster and erected a pillar of ice that rocketed her and McCree skyward. Genji leapt and bounded his way to the exit, clamoring up the wall.

Winston hung a hand down to Reinhardt, who held Amélie and Tracer close to him, shielding them from harm.

Reinhardt ran to him. He extended his hand, and jumped.

_“Gotcha!”_

Winston strained to pull him up. They ran at a breakneck speed once they were topside.

“How much time we got?” Lúcio asked.

“Not enough! Shut up and run, kid!” Jack exclaimed. “Everyone _move it!”_

Amélie held tightly to Tracer, the two of them still cradled by Reinhardt. Blood soaked her arms and chest.

They piled into the dropship they had hidden near the entrance. The hatch slowly closed behind them.

Amélie laid Tracer down on the seats while Pharah sat at the controls. She throttled forward, and the craft tore through the air.

A dull thunder rolled throughout the hold. The flash was blinding. The ship rocked midair, its warning sirens blaring not nearly as loudly as the explosion. Fire rolled upwards through every extremity of the structure, singeing and licking at dirt and rock as it shot the hangar bay doors into the sky like a champagne cork.

Tracer, rousing from her benumbed state, grunted and shifted in pain on the seat.

“Was that it? That was the explosion, right? We got ‘em?” The words came with no small effort.

“Yes, _meine_ _liebste_ ,” Mercy replied, kneeling at her side. “That was it. We did it.”

She let out a pained laugh, coughing up blood.

“Please, Lena, be still.”

Reinhardt knelt at her side, beside Mercy and Amélie.

“My little Lena…” he said, taking her hand gently. If Tracer didn’t know him better, she might not have been able to see that behind his affable yet stoic façade, he was terrified. “You’ve the world’s most talented doctor at your side. You will be fine, my sweet. How do you feel?”

“Peachy,” she said sarcastically. “I’ll be okay, big guy. I’m not goin’ anywhere. McCree owes me fifteen quid, y’know. Think I’m lettin’ him off that easy?” The dropship hummed with worried laughter. She turned her eyes to McCree, and a distressed smile parted his face.

She contorted suddenly, and shrieked in pain. A murmur whispered in the hull. Mei buried her face in McCree’s chest, stifling a cry.

Fear tore at Amélie. Potent. Mortifying. The metallic scent of blood drenched the air. Tracer placed her hand on her cheek and Amélie took it in her own.

Tracer realized that now was not the time for subtlety. There might not be a time for anything soon. She mustered all the strength she could to manage the words.

“I love you, Amélie.”

With that, she fell into unconsciousness. Amélie shook her head, silently begging. Pleading.

“I love you too…”

She did not release her hand for the rest of the flight home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got one more chapter after this, and Recall is DONE!


	14. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overwatch succeeded in bringing Talon to its knees, but at a cost. Amélie does not leave Tracer's side, as Tracer once did for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one, guys!

The rhythmic beeping of the heartbeat monitor and fastidious breathing from within the respiratory mask quickly became easy for Amélie to drown out. If she hadn't made the conscientious effort to do so, they'd have otherwise driven her mad. That the mechanical, laboured whirring and chirping of a slew of medical devices were born of Lena's grimly disheartening condition was nothing short of deranging.

Tracer’s injuries were the most critical. Pharah had sustained two cracked ribs from her crash, but walked about as if nothing were wrong—much to Mercy’s dismay; McCree’s shoulder had been sterilized, sewn up and bandaged, as had Lúcio’s grazed forearm and midsection; Jack’s injuries practically healed all on their own before they’d even returned, owing to the chemicals in his body; Amélie had minor injuries from her fight with Reaper and from the blast, but none were life threatening and had all been seen to.

Tracer was a different story; several shrapnel wounds and large contusions along her left side, a small gash just above her brow where her goggles had shattered and splintered into her forehead, three broken ribs, one of which had punctured her lung, a cracked femur, a concussion, and myriad other internal injuries. Amélie heard Mercy say she was surprised she was still breathing by the time they got back to London.

Amélie was sitting in the med bay when Lúcio and D.Va suddenly appeared in her peripheral vision. They stood in the doorway.

“Hey, Am,” Lúcio greeted quietly.

“Hello,” she responded. “How’re you both?”

“We’re not too bad. Worried about you, is all. Everyone is.”

“You haven’t eaten in days,” D.Va fretted. A blanket was draped over her folded arms.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have much of an appetite these days, I suppose,” Amélie deflected. Frankly, she hadn’t even noticed; that she hadn’t had a single meal in days, or that entire days had already passed by. Everything was blurred, in disarray, like it was shrouded in fog.

“Thank you for coming to see me. I appreciate the gesture. Sincerely, I do. I just…” She sighed. “I don’t want to leave her.”

They nodded in understanding. D.Va slowly walked over, extending the blanket out to her.

“We brought this for you. Thought it might help.”

The corners of Amélie’s lips turned upwards a smile; small, and sad, but appreciative. She accepted the gift more for comfort than anything else. She didn’t feel cold. She didn’t feel much of anything the past few days.

“Thank you, Hana,” she said. D.Va knelt down and draped her arms around her.

Lúcio took her hand as D.Va rose from her. “She’ll be okay. Back up and bouncin’ off the walls again in no time. Tell us if you need anything.”

He was good at that, she found. Wherever the young man went, he left warmth and comfort in his wake. He was kindred spirits with Tracer in that regard.

“You’re very sweet,” Amélie praised. “Both of you. Thank you.”

 

*******

It was almost 3:00 AM by the time Amélie took her first glance at the clock in hours. She couldn’t sleep. Even when she managed to, she only did so for a few hours at a time, before a nightmare or some other ghastly contortion lurking in her psyche jolted her from her rest.

It had been a long time since something had made her feel this way. Her indoctrination into Talon was the only comparison.

The exhaustion eventually overtook her, her head resting in her palm. In a half-awake-half-asleep state, she noticed someone enter the room. A man. She did not acknowledge him.

The man walked over to Tracer. He stood at her side for quite a length of time, before leaning over and planting a delicate kiss on her forehead. He was about to leave when he turned his attention to Amélie.

The blanket had fallen off while she slept. She looked at him through lidded eyes as he lifted it back onto her.

“Thank you, Jack.”

He nodded charitably, his lips pressed into a thin white line, before exiting the room.

 

*******

           

She was torn from her slumber when her head slipped from her hand. It was early morning now. Her eyes went straight back to Tracer as they had every day. She glanced cautiously at the machines around her, hoping to discern from them some prognostication of Lena’s return to consciousness.

Winston entered the room.

“Good morning, Amélie.”

“ _Bonjour_.”

“May I?” He gestured to the empty space on the floor next to her, the simple request all but dripping with politeness. She nodded in response.

He sat down beside her with a dull thud and handed her a plate of food Reinhardt had made. “Please, eat. Your blood sugar must be dangerously low by now.”

She took the plate from his hands, thanking him quietly. They sat in silence for several long minutes before Winston finally spoke.

“Do you know why she has to wear that harness?”

She shook her head. “No, she hasn’t told me.”

Winston set his own plate down, settling in for a lengthy story.

He told her of how Lena Oxton was once one of the most skilled pilots who ever lived. How her accident with the prototype jet known as the Slipstream stole that life from her, and how it left her as a ghost. How she bounced in and out of existence, trapped in a nebulous purgatory of time. How she couldn’t interact with anything when she was here, and how terrified she was when she wasn’t. “Chronal disassociation” was her diagnosis.

Then he told her of his invention, the harness she wore at all times; her chronal accelerator. How happy she was when she had her life back again, and her elation with the abilities it gave her. How she didn’t care in the slightest that she’d have to wear a harness for the rest of her life. How that led to the friendship between them that they now shared.

“She can never be kept down,” Winston said, looking at his friend, battered and bed-ridden. “No matter what hits her, she always gets back up with twice the resolve. Indomitable in every sense of the word, this one. Her spirit embodies everything we stand for.”

Amélie felt a lump rise in her throat.

“Do you see what I’m saying?”

“I think so.”

He nodded. “She’ll be back on her feet and as effervescent as ever soon.” He trailed off, and his gaze wandered. Whether or not it was said for Amélie’s sake or his own was hard to tell. “…No matter what hits her...”

Amélie turned to him. It was apparent in his expression; Tracer was like family to him.

She wrapped her arms around the arm upon which he leaned. He was admittedly taken by surprise, but it quickly turned to thankfulness. Each leaned their head on his shoulder. They were both thoroughly exhausted.

 

*******

 

Winston stirred once again.

Mercy hovered over Tracer. She ran simple tests and took x-rays of her body, careful not to disturb the two across from her.

“How is she, Angela?”

“Better,” she responded in her signature soothing voice. “The rest has been good for her. She’s still a ways to go, but she’s already showing signs of improvement. Her femur has already begun to mend, and the puncture in her lung has fully closed. Her ribs are in the infant stages of healing, too. She’s a tenacious one.”

“Good..." he said, unable to suppress a great yawn. "That’s good. How long do you think it’ll be before she’s up and walking again?”

“Walking? I’d say about a week and a half. As long as the nanobots work their magic, it should another two weeks on top of that before she’s her old self again.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, Angie. I feel great already.”

Mercy and Winston’s gaze whipped to Tracer. Amélie jumped awake at the sound of her voice.

“Can I take this silly mask off now?”

Mercy laughed, overwhelmingly relieved. “Of course.”

Tracer pulled the respirator off with deliberation. Mercy asked Winston to fetch the others.

“How are you feeling, Lena?” Mercy inquired.

“Got quite the headache. Leg’s sore. Chest is pretty knackered. Other than that, great, grand and groovy. How do the shrapnel wounds look? Do I have cool battle scars now?”

She must have heard parts of Mercy’s analysis of her wounds in a state of near-consciousness. “No, they’ve healed wonderfully. No battle scars, I’m afraid. There is one on your ribcage, however. I had to remove the broken rib from your lung. I can easily get rid of it, if you like.”

She lifted the sheet and looked down her shirt at the scar. “Bloody hell, that looks _wicked!”_

Amélie brought a hand to her mouth and laughed giddily at the exclamation. Tracer looked at her with a fondness that transcended description, forgetting completely what she was talking about.

“Hey, stranger,” she said.

“Hi,” Amélie replied quietly.

Everyone else entered the room cheering. Reinhardt’s laugh, naturally, was the first thing she heard. They threw their fists in the air in seeing that she was conscious.

“How d’you feel, kiddo?” McCree asked. “Better’n you look, I hope.”

Mei smacked his chest with the back of her hand. “Don’t listen to him. He came in to see you every single day. ‘Mr. Big Tough Cowboy’ over here was petrified.”

His gaze dropped slightly. His flushed face bore a sly, embarrassed smirk.

Tracer’s, conversely, formed an expression of grateful adoration. “I’ll feel better once you come over here and give me a hug, you smartass,” she ordered. She lifted her arms in the air and hooked them around his neck. She was happy to see him, happy to see all of them.

He lifted himself from her embrace and nodded his head to the table to her right. Fifteen pounds lay on its surface—she couldn’t help but laugh.

After many heartfelt exchanges, she wanted to speak with the woman beside her.

“If you guys don’t mind, I’d like some time with Amélie.”

The room was theirs. The two locked eyes again in a comfortable silence. Amélie rested her hand on Tracer’s, delighted to feel its warmth. Tracer took it in hers, its coolness soothing and pleasant.

“You know, Jack came in here last night,” Amélie said, the quiet that had invaded the room fractured by her gentle voice. “He watched you for a little while. Kissed your forehead.”

Tracer cherished the thought. “That’s so sweet. He’d be right miffed if he knew you told me that.”

Amélie exhaled a laugh. “I suppose he would, yes. Can’t have everyone thinking the years have made him soft, can he?”

Her expression slowly waned. Tears crawled down her face in jagged trajectories.

“I was scared, Lena,” she finally said. “Terrified.”

“I know. I was too.” Tracer's words hitched in her throat. “I’m sorry...”

Amélie shook her head. “Don’t be. Please, don’t be.”

She stood, and touched her forehead to Tracer’s. She kissed her tenderly, reluctant to pull away as if she would disappear if she did.

" _Je t'aime tant, ma chérie Lena."_

“What’s that mean?”

"'I love you so much, my darling Lena.’”

“Then, _‘je t’aime tant, ma chérie Amélie.’”_

Amélie laughed. “Your accent is atrocious.”

“Cut me some slack, love, I’m workin’ on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. Recall is done! Hopefully you enjoyed the ending, and the rest of the story too! This was my first crack at a fully-fledged story for something, so everyone's comments, kudos and feedback have been really, really awesome. I'm glad it got a good reception!
> 
> I do have a sequel planned for this as well. It's not done yet, but it's drawing to a close pretty quick. Can't say when it'll be out because I spend a lot of time editing things so it doesn't sound like dogshit, but expect it soon! Soon-ish...? Hopefully soon. THANKS FOR READING EVERYONE, LOVE YA'S ALL


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